


The Life of Lisbeth Trevelyan Book 1

by smartwars



Series: Trevelyan Forbidden Texts: The Unabridged Canticles of Andraste's Herald [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Attempted Murder, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Domestic Violence, F/F, F/M, Family Secrets, Graphic Description, Incest, Love, M/M, Multi, Murder, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex, Slavery, Violence, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-14 10:32:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10534674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smartwars/pseuds/smartwars
Summary: Just so everyone is aware, the time stamps are for the years (the conclave convenes at 9:41 and we start earlier). Drakonis and Bloomingtide are also month names in the DA universe. I don't go too heavy in lore but these things do pop up and I always use the dates. Thank you for your interest :)





	1. 1-3

**Author's Note:**

> Just so everyone is aware, the time stamps are for the years (the conclave convenes at 9:41 and we start earlier). Drakonis and Bloomingtide are also month names in the DA universe. I don't go too heavy in lore but these things do pop up and I always use the dates. Thank you for your interest :)

**Introduction by Unnamed Author**

_Exalted Herald of Andraste, Herald of the Faith, Inquisitor, Her Worshipful Lady Lisbeth Trevelyan. The slayer of dragons, reincarnation of Our Lady, defeater of the false god Corypheus, savior of Thedas, foiler of a Qunari invasion, and leader of Divine Victoria’s personal Honor Guard._

_Lady Trevelyan took on many titles when she acquired the mark. Whispers and rumors abound as to how she came to wear it: was it from Andraste? The Maker himself? Justinia? The fabled false god Fen Harel? Or dare we suggest…the abomination that was Corypheus?_

_Any one of these could be true and none would take away the great works Lisbseth Trevelyan performed both on battlefields and in circles as well as in homes and with loved ones. She was a paragon of her time, a woman with all the independence of the Free Marshes and the beauty of Andraste herself._

_Lisbeth Trevelyan was a woman touched by glory and fate._

_If you have read this far, I applaud you. This is dangerous text in your hands, one of the few scattered around the world. Though the Canticles of Lisbeth are available for your consumption, you are a reader that wants more than the teachings and tales of our Lady Herald, coming from the mouths of the Sisters and Clerics who merely exalt her honor. You, dear reader, want the truth—unabridged and fleshed out with details, names, dates. You want to know the Lady behind the fable, behind the near-mythic status, the dark secrets that have always been kept in the dark so she could shine in the light. I warn you now that many will call this book a collection of tall tales and lies, seeking to slander our good lady—that I am somehow a monster for providing the blemishes on Trevelyan’s shiny armor. They will call you liar, say you are reading fluffy, heretical smut, not worth paying any attention to. You, dear reader, must know better than them. And harder still, you must be satisfied with knowing the truth, even if no one else will hear or believe._

_It’s a burden I put on you but, if this book is in your hands, it is not one you did not ask for. You want to be inside Lisbeth Trevelyan’s mind, inside of her past, inside the darkest corners of the Trevelyan Manor._

_And I am here to put you there._

 

* * *

 

  
  
_**1** _

_Our story begins to take form not through the eyes of Lisbeth (in this segment and many others beside) but instead we gaze through the eyes of her older brother: Serah Truman._

Truman Trevelyan was a tall boy for his age, destined to be the tree of his house. Strong hands and a cinnamon face like his father made Truman handsome, his straight hair grown into a tiny ponytail he wore near his neck. Already he could ride as well as cousins near twice his age and he was well into his grooming towards becoming the next Bann of the house.

That particular day, the young lord was dressed in his velvet-accented tunic and trousers which chafed as he paced outside of his parents’ room, the master suite of their large manor. The Trevelyans were nothing if not wealthy and respected, as Truman would learn growing up, and the title of Bann in Ostwick for them meant a title near-equal to that of an arl in Ferelden.

The voices talked over each other in the suite, sharp tones and gentle ones intermixed. Truman had been through several of these occasions at this point, being the firstborn of Bann Ronald Trevelyan and his Lady Dawn. First coming into this world in 9:01, the young master had seen the birth of three other children in the past eleven years but this time would be the last time for his mother, though he didn’t know it at the time. It was 9:12 dragon and once Lady Trevelyan’s screams finally died, he was let about her chambers, left to his own devices whilst he waited on her to produce another brother or sister.

“Are you ready now, Truman?” Mum, the nurse, came out to ask him that. She’d changed her bloodstained aprons for his benefit. Truman had been ready since his sister Grace was born but did not feel the need to tell the old nurse that. Her skin was paling and grey speckled her blonde hair. She was only 41 but her time birthing and helping to raise Truman, his brother Maxwell, his sister Grace, and his brother Brycen had taken its toll. She was becoming old before her time.

            Truman exited the pale red walls and moved into his parent’s blood red ones. It was messy and smelled like it had each time a baby was born. Three other midwives, their mother’s trusted servant Luanda, and Truman’s father each stood around the bed where Dawn held the baby in her arms, smiling at her boy as he walked in. She had darker skin, like a piece of dark chocolate, and curly hair that hung to her shoulders, usually so vibrant and bouncy but today so damp. He was the only child to visit the birthing rooms so soon after the process and came to be honored to have such a privilege—such a burden. He stepped to the bed as his tired, weary mother pulled back the cloth and revealed the smooth face of his new baby sister.

            “It’s a girl.” Dawn told him. Ronald placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. Dawn offered the bundle to her son’s expert arms and he cradled the girl as he had cradled all the rest, save for Maxwell but he had been two at the time and barely old enough to walk without bumping himself on a wall. Now, he was different, older. He held the girl who felt light in his arms, lighter than any of the other siblings had. Her big brown eyes looked up at him with wonder, and she cried no tears. He loved her the moment their eyes met.

            “Another sister.” Ronald smiled at him, rubbing his back now. “For you to teach and cherish and protect.”

            “Yes father.” Truman said dutifully, his words genuine, kissing the soft skin on the girl’s forehead. Her big eyes blinked.

            “And to respect.” Dawn added, with a look towards her husband.

            “Always.” Ronald agreed. “As you should well know by now, my young lord.”

            “I will.” Truman said to him. “Who is she?”

            The girl was a round-faced, brown child with wisps of hair so dark it looked nearly black. In fact, it looked like his father’s in that respect—or his own.

            “We’re naming her Lisbeth.” Dawn said.

            “Little Lisbeth.” Truman smiled. “My baby sister.”

            “May she grow to good health and fortune, as her mother and father before her.” Mum finished, smiling at them all softly. He smiled and gave his sister one more kiss.

_See, Truman Trevelyan was firstborn of his house. He was to be the next Bann when Ronald and Dawn were too old or too far underground to manage their affairs. He was expected to bear the name, sire children, acquire knighthood, and champion the words and symbol of Trevelyan in a way none of his siblings would have to—well, would have had to, if not for the conclave. But that is too far ahead and the tale of the Herald continues early still._

            In the months following Lisbeth’s birth, Truman came to care for her almost as dutifully as their nurse, Mum. It was because she would stop crying when she was in his arms and switch to his direction whenever he entered a room she was in, even before she could walk. He’d teach her words and read to her from the books he was learning sentences from. He’d even read her to sleep, walking with her limp in his arms to return her to Mum’s quarters so she could lay down to rest. Grace, who was six years younger than Truman, would fight to hold Lisbeth, arguing that it was her sister too but Truman did not trust any of his siblings but Maxwell not to hurt or drop the child until Lisbeth learned to walk. He was more lenient after that.

            “Truman dear, your parents call for you in their study.” Mum told him one Drakonis afternoon. He was fourteen then, and soon to go to the academy further in the city to be taught high numbers and letters and history. He did not favor leaving but would do his duty. He was that kind of boy.

            “Father. Mother.” He greeted them in their small study, sitting at two tables. His mother was writing papers and counting numbers while his father spoke to their Steward. Upon his entrance, all this ceased and the steward was shewed away.

            “Son, come sit.” Ronald told him. Curiosity met worry as Truman took a seat nearer his mother, who put a gentle hand on his shoulder. His parents traded a look and the floor was given to Dawn.

            “Truman, Mum and Luanda have told us about some…special things that have happened around Lisbeth.” Dawn began. At the mention of her name, Truman perked up, eyes wider now and back stiff.

            “What’s happened to Lisbeth? What did they see?”

            “Calm yourself.” Ronald told him, glancing nervously at his wife again.

            “We believe she may have been…blessed…with the gift of magic, son.”

            Truman can scarcely remember how he felt then, or what emotions were swirling in him as he looked from both his mother to his father in shock. How had he not seen it? How could it be? He also could remember thinking “oh fuck.”

            “What…did they see?” He asked.

            “She was following some invisible thing, apparently.” Ronald explained. “As children are known to do—imaginary nothings. But her particular fascination took her far through the manor and when Mum tried to stop her…she was….”

            “Shocked.” Dawn said.

            “Shocked?”

            “A current of electricity.” Ronald explained. “Lisbeth stopped chasing and said it flew to Mum and was gone.”

            The silence in the room was numb. Dawn’s cough seemed infinitely louder than it should have. Truman’s face crumpled. It crumpled and became tight and angry because he knew what this meant.

            “So she’s cursed.” He started.

            “Blessed.” Dawn corrected.

            “And you’re going to send her away.” This sentence was met with silence as Ronald and Dawn traded uneasy looks for the tenth time that sitting.

            “Truman, she must learn how to control this,” Ronald said slowly.

            “She can learn here.” Truman interjected.

            “You know that isn’t true.” Dawn said sternly.

            “We have tutors come to teach us arithmetic. What’s so different about magic?”

            “The difference is clear.” Ronald said. “One is numbers, the other is…something not greatly understood and dangerous besides.”

            “We train soldiers here and that’s dangerous.”

            “Soldiers can’t level half the manor with some sort of fire spell.”

            Truman pressed his lips together, hating that his father was meeting him word for word, telling him he was wrong, being right.

            “And it isn’t the way things are done.” Dawn reminded him. “You remember the Chant of Light, Truman?” He muttered a response. “Magic exists to serve man. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against his Children.”

            “Lisbeth hasn’t.” Truman tried.

            “She already has unintentionally.” Ronald spoke, voice like ice.

            “A jolt of electricity?” Truman was incredulous.

            “The principle of it.” Dawn interrupted them. “The commandments our Lady gave were what prompted the true circles into being.” The word made Truman shudder. “They are not to be feared, not prisons. We see mages from it all the time, visiting home and sharing stories of what they’ve learned and friends they’ve made.” She lets the words sink in. “But it would be a disservice to our house, to Lisbeth, and to the Chantry itself to hide this and risk the corruption of our daughter. Isn’t her safety more important than our desires for her here?”

            She’d won him. Truman grudgingly nodded and Ronald cleared his throat.

            “It won’t be soon.” He told them. “She is too young to part from us. But when she is old enough, at first chance, she must go to the Circle.”

            “She won’t be far away.” Dawn told the room, assuring them all. “And she can leave when it is given and we can send a servant with her to be her companion there as she needs it.”

            Truman was not happy when he left their study but he knew he could not be mad either. He walked out and saw none other than Lisbeth, just three years old, running towards him once she spotted him. He gave the best smile he could and scooped her into his arms, squeezing her tight and giving her a spin. Her smooth face was the color of cocoa beans and her eyes a bright brown. Her dark hair, just like his, was straight and had grown fast, touching the middle of her shoulder blades, braided at the sides to keep it from her face.

            “Chuman!” That’s how she’d say his name at that age. That’s what she cried when she was in his arms. Truman had to be good to her, even knowing she would be shipped off—how soon, he knew not.

            “You found me.” He said to her.

            “I hid her necklace.” She confided in him, loud enough for the castle to hear. Truman had to laugh at her.

            “Now where did you put Celia’s necklace, hm?” He asked her. She put her hands to her mouth and sniggered, shaking her head in protest. “Alright, you leave me no choice.” His fingers tickled inside her armpits and at her tummy and the foot he could reach, Lisbeth shrieking and fighting him to no avail. She laughed like a tinkling bell and screamed like a dove. That’s how Truman heard her. He “convinced” her to give its location, running with her in his arms as she pointed him to where it was stored.

            He could recall reading to her that night, some dry book about the letters of Ferelden, holding her in his lap as she mewed, drifting off into fade. What would she be dreaming of, he wondered, when she closed those pretty eyes and her breathing stilled. What was attacking her even now? What demons had come to prey on his sister, all because she could reach into the fade the way others couldn’t? And why had the Maker cursed her with this “blessing.” Truman would never find out but he would always contemplate.

 

* * *

 

_Interlude_

_The inhabitants of the Trevelyan manor are numerous and it would exhaust you to read the entirety of all there, with names coming over the years and others going. But for the sake of the following segments of Books One and Two, it’s important you know those who had an impact on the lives of the Trevelyans within the house—and indeed, who they were._

_Briefly said, Ronald Trevelyan was a famed seafarer who had close relations with the kin of the Teyrn of Ostwick. He was a military man at heart and his seaband quickly became a company that defended against raiders and ruffians. After doing the chantry a service in this area, he was awarded extensions on his land, with lesser lords and banns pledging to or allying with him. His wife, the former Dawn Caspin, was a seafaring lady herself. Well known in Starkhaven, Dawn was a woman of faith and agreements between Ostwick and sister nations. She met the knight upon returning from one such journey and the two decided to marry. She would have 5 children._

_Their first child, born 9:01 was Truman, who we have heard from in this first segment of our Herald’s story. He took after his father, a cinnamon brown, brightly undertoned with dark hair. His eyes were deep brown and his nose was long. Though not as wide-jawed and broad-backed as other knights, Truman would be considered one of the most handsome, for his lush, long hair, chin mustache, his long face, large hands, and a voice that made all the servants (and indeed noblewomen) drop their smallclothes._

_His brother Maxwell was two years younger, born 9:03. He took more after his mother, with a bit of a rounder nose, wider nostrils. He even inherited her curly hair and brown skin a few shades lighter than her own. He was perhaps handsomer than his brother but did not have the calming voice, instead possessing one that incited a challenge to all who heard it. Though a good spirited boy, Maxwell was quicker to anger and constantly seeking to prove himself. I suppose that is the fate of all second-born sons._

_Grace Trevelyan was the first of two girls, born 9:07. As she grew up from a fussy babe, she became a reflection of her mother, with her beauty amplified far beyond the original. She had looser curls in her hair but curls all the same that would often trail down her back, bushy and soft. She was the darkest of the children, the tint of a coffee bean with the brightest of eyes, sometimes brown, sometimes grey, which was like their great aunt Lucille. Grace was refined and quiet after her tantrum days left her, and she had a strong head for numbers. Many who encountered her called her steady but the other adjectives that could be heard were ones like cold and elusive._

_Brycen Trevelyan was destined to be a problem child. Born 9:10, he was the longest birth Dawn labored through and he did not stop crying for near a week. He was the lightest of the all the children, varying shades of caramel depending on the season with hair a brighter brown than any of his siblings had. Brycen was curious and questioning, always quick to play the devil in any exchange. He was emotional and good hearted but troublesome and strong willed. The brown of his eyes was more a topaz._

_Then there was Lisbeth, our heroine and the Lady who closed the rift that threatened to rip the world apart. Born 9:12, she was a near perfect combination of mother and father, with skin like heated sienna, red underneath the brown. She had her father’s hair and her mother’s eyes and seemed to enchant many she came across. Gifted with voice like her brother Truman, Lisbeth was good at persuading and those who could look past her tendency towards princess-like demands and result-driven morality came to love her, often despite themselves._

_The famous Great Aunt Lucille had a daughter very late in life—a pretty girl named Celia who could often be found with her own cousins in the biggest guest room of the Trevelyan manor. Indeed, they practically lived there while her mother made political moves. On Dawn’s side, her sister, Camille Caspin and her nieces and nephews would often visit as well. She raised them for her brother, for she was unable to birth her own children._

_Luanda, Dawn’s highborn lady in waiting, mothered a daughter, Daisy. The girl was olive in skin and had sandy-brown hair and blue eyes. She quickly became inseparable from Grace. Another high-born girl, Melina, was employed to be the keeper for Lisbeth, who instead took a liking to the lowlier servants, like Paven—a fire-haired elf hired on initially as a groom. He had come along with elves Honey and Tigris, a brunette and a red-brunette, who were employed as scullions. The knights and marshals were numerous but those of note would be Cain, who was a grey-haired, blue eyed Commander beneath the Bann and Antonelli, a wide-curled woman who rose the ranks to position of his right hand. There was Chadwick, the olive-skinned young and upcoming knight looking for glory and Cristofer, a ginger nobleboy being fostered with the Trevelyans. Then there was the blonde-haired hunk that was Hunfried—but he would come during the later years and we’ve only just passed infancy._

_End Interlude_

 

* * *

 

**_2_ **

_Though Ronald and Dawn knew Lisbeth as both daughter and carrier of House burdens, Mum saw her only as a young girl. She would always be as harmless as a butterfly to her even if she was astoundingly annoying at times._

            Mum fussed about the dinner that was to be had in the great hall that evening. It was the night Maxwell was returning on holiday from his time away at Ostwick’s Templar Chapter. 9:17, and another Bloomingtide made the air hot and the sky bright. The supper was nothing short of a feast with servants running around the kitchens and hallways, hands full of platters, food, banners, drapery, netting. The bustle of the castle turned into a flurry, with no one safe from the busy feet threatening to trample anyone who stood in their way. Three years, Maxwell had been gone. Shipped off at just eleven years old, the boy was only now able to visit home, along with other knights and even the lieutenant of the Ostwick Chapter. Family, friends, and all manner of officials were coming.

            Where Lisbeth got off to, Mum hadn’t a clue. She gathered up her skirts, sighing as she rounded up as many of the kids as she could.

            “Mum—”

            “Getting her, my lady.”

            “Well she can’t have gone far. We need her ready now. Spotters saw them less than an hour out.” Dawn Trevelyan was irate and there was no nonsense to be had when she was in this mood. Mum nodded but was not as quick to cower as the lowlier of the servants.

            “I’m doing the best that I can but when she sneaks out of her chamber—”

            “And it is your job to make sure she doesn’t do that.” Dawn was stony. “And if those silly girls can’t even get a gown and slip over a five year old child—”

            “We’ve got her.” The voice spoke. Hurrying down the hall with the young Lisbeth thrown over his shoulder was Truman. Half dressed himself, the lad was missing his shirt, collar, and cuffs, only the thin fabric of his undershirt on. Beside him was Paven, the elven boy of only seven. Truman was irritated but he set her down with a tight smile.

            “She ran all the way down the hall.” Truman explained, sighing. His own chamberlains were hot on his heels, with the rest of his clothing ready to be thrown on the young lord. He stuck out his arms for them. “She ran into my boudoir when my boy opened the door to my room.”

            “Through the drawing room and second pantry first m’lady.” Paven said, red in the face from having been the one to chase her. “I chased her but there’s so much going on and she’s so small she could slip through the cracks—”

            “I don’t care what happened—get her in a gown and fix her hair!” Dawn turned away sharply and Mum mirrored her attitude.

            “Don’t just stand there! Go and get her chamberlains.” Mum snapped at Paven who nodded jerkily and then took off one more, back through the hallway he’d just come from. She grabbed the wrist of Lisbeth sharply. The girl was still giggling but frowned at that and tried to pull away, her slip all that was on her, hair swinging about. Mum swatted her butt. “And you’d better count your blessings that I’m in a good mood or I’d put you over my knee right here in front of all these nice people!”

            Lisbeth whined and Mum brought her to her feet. Once she’d been put into a lilac gown with her hair braided into a large nest, and had nettle strewn atop it, Mum let her go into the Great Hall. The room was near full already, with the high table already full of all those who should be in attendance. As soon as she let her go, Lisbeth was off, walking as quickly as she could to take seat beside Brycen, who poked her almost immediately. The two erupted into laughter as well as a poking match that Mum did her best to ignore. She took her seat at the lower table closest to the lord’s own, with the other highborn servants. In her own fuchsia gown, with hair freshly washed and combed, Mum looked closer to her age and felt as beautiful as she looked.

            The procession was a grand one. Templars decked in their silver plates and leather wrappings marched through, to the applause of the house and its guests. Maxwell stood with the others, looking marvelous. The young recruit that he was, he only had shoulder-armor and knee plates but the crest fit him like he was born to wear it. His hair had been cut short but his curls were still bouncy as ever. He looked dutiful, a boy of fourteen with a man’s focus. Mum could feel herself getting teary-eyed and daintily patted at her eyes to stop the display.

Commander Westin Cain met with Templar Lieutenant Genich and with a clasping of hands and a bow from the Templar company to the high table, the feast began.

_If memory serves, the night was full of music and jesters and beautiful linens and cottons and silks of many colors. Armor was shiny, men were handsome, ladies were beautiful, and the night seemed to go by too fast but last just long enough. One servant, Honey, had her fascinations firmly fixed on the young Templar in training._

She watched him the entire feast, moving in and out, unable to feast with the noblemen and highborn servants. But each time she came out, she would tarry at Maxwell’s cup. The adults all sat to one side of the table while the kids sat on the other: Truman, Grace, Bryce, Lisbeth, Celia, Anne, Muriel, Martin, Francesco. She kept position behind the table, as was instructed, and sure enough could heard the chatter, all of it about the star of the night—the star of her young girlish dreams.

“So no vigil yet?” Truman asked. “When?”

“Whenever the basic training it done and I become old enough they say.” Max answered.

“Men have a harder time working on their spirits.” Celia said wisely. She was a lovely, deeply olive-toned girl, same age as Truman from a mother much older than his. Being a direct cousin, she was allowed at the high table and sat to Truman’s right while Max was on his left. “You must be ready to do something that takes emotional control—and not do it before.”

“Thank you, Celia.” Truman said with subtle sarcasm. “I can see it happening soon then, Max.” His brother smiled small and appreciatively. The questions kept coming.

“Are you going to come back home more?”

“Did you travel to Ferelden? Did you meet the Couslands?”

“Cristofer and Anne missed you so much. They’ll be happy to know you’ll be able to visit more.”

All the night, she heard the talk to Maxwell and from him. Several times, their eyes met, and several times they did nothing. Honey was glad for the creams and powders that hid her cheeks, which threatened to flame redly. It was when Truman caught her eye that true panic finally filled her. The older brother gave her a knowing look as she scurried back to her post and, with eyes always glancing her way frankly, she heard him speak.

            “You have her smitten.” When Maxwell turned in his chair completely to look back toward her, Honey looked pointedly ahead, wishing that she could sink into the stones beneath their feet. Maxwell turned away then and she saw him laugh and his brother speak more to him but she couldn’t hear past a pounding that had taken hold in her fifteen year old, elven ears. It was the pounding of self-pity, of insecurity as she saw him laugh at her perceived affections with his noble brother.

            “I’ll have the summers off so we’ll see what you’ve learned Grace.” He told his sister. The older (though still young) daughter, mistress Grace, glanced his way and smirked with her beautiful mouth, taking a coil of her beautiful hair and putting it back into place.

            “You can teach me your Templar tricks and I will teach you my chevalier ones.” She said over a cup of cider. The girl was only ten but looked eleven and had the Graces of someone near twelve.

            “And who taught you chevalier tricks?” He asked, skeptical. She smiled into her cup, saying no more. Maxwell laughed at her silence and Truman, calmly as he did, gestured a cup into the crowd, to the space where the highborn servants sat. He was pointing to one she knew, Grace’s chamberlain: Alice. The noble woman was a bit plain, with brown hair no lighter or darker than Honey’s but still, Truman shifted Maxwell’s gaze to her and there was no shake of the head this time no guffaw, only a small chuckle. Not like it had been at Honey…the elf.

            Unable to leave, Honey stood that evening withholding facial expressions that ranged from anger to sorrow. For her, the feast seemed to take all night, to be never ending. When it finally did and the kids began to travel to their assigned rooms, never forgetting their courteous departing words, Honey was thankfully excused to the kitchens where she could be at the beck and call of the cook Lady Belton who insisted only on being called Ma’am by all but the Lords. Many people walked in and out of the kitchen in the bustle and servants were sent to attend to the guests who needed it. Honey was sent with wine to the Letholds in the upper floor’s guest room. She hurried to do so, for the sooner she completed her tasks, the sooner she too could sleep this night away.

            To and fro, up and down stairs, Honey delivered bottles and trays and mugs and rags until Ma’am told her that all she need do was deliver candles to the Montagus and she could finally retire. It was late by then and the only servants left were those cleaning the kitchen and running errands as she was. With a smile and curtsey to the lady, she deposited the candles and was on her way back down the stairs when she spied a shadow stealthily sneaking at the foot. She thought for sure her eyes were tricking her, for it looked like Maxwell Trevelyan. He wore a hood and no more armor, but she wouldn’t mistake that grin and those curls anywhere else.

            Slowly, she followed his pace and kept to the shadows, out of the braziers and lamps on the walls. He seemed to be doing the same. He slipped into the buttery, closing the door behind him. Honey stopped. A glimmer of hope filled her as she thought that maybe she could step into the light of the buttery with him there and give him her compliments—all those that filled her mind at dinner, those that had been suppressed and unable to be spoken.

            With a breath and a smile, she opened the door only to find the key to the larder within the lock, the door cracked. The key could not be dislodged when the lock was opened but Honey wondered why it was open at all—the last cold jug of wine had been left to Tigris. She thought it might have been accidental and stepped over to close it. But upon getting closer, she heard it.

            The kissing. It was wet and came accompanied by grunts and even moans.

            Honey’s heart beat faster. She realized then that Maxwell was not here. In fact, no one was in the buttery at this hour. She realized…that he must be within the coolness of the Larder… kissing and moaning with….

            Most of her wanted to walk away, another part wanted to close the door on him and Alice. But yet another part of her wanted to peek. She could not really say why, just that it was Max and he’d snuck into the larder and she had to see.

            And so she did.

            And the sight of Maxwell’s tongue slipping in and out of Cristofer Fonnier’s mouth made her heart beat even faster.

            The boy was two years Maxwell’s senior, Truman’s friend first most assumed, though he did fill a large role in the younger’s life. The Templar and the aspiring Knight were close, as Cristofer was being fostered by the Trevelyans until Knighthood was granted to him and he could be sent where his parents wished.

            But none could have known how close. Certainly, not as close as the two could be seen now. Max’s back was on the walls beside a cabinet of products. Cristofer was taller than the boy, his second growing already having come. One hand vanished into the shorter boy’s shirt, and he kissed him hard, rubbing his pants into Max’s. He moaned each time Max moved, each time he pulled Cris closer or squeezed his ass or mussed in his hair.

            Honey did not know she was transfixed, trying to make sense of things until Maxwell grabbed Cristofer’s hair, jerked his head back, and kissed his neck, making a sickly sucking noise as he did. Cristofer’s hand squirmed into Max’s trousers, right in front, and Max moved his hips off the wall in response. Crisofer’s head turned and his eyes opened. They were grey eyes, pretty eyes for a handsome man. And they were full of lust, heavy like the armor Max had on just hours before.

            But the instant they saw her, they were wide and she saw him yank his hand from Maxwell’s pants and shake the other boy to turn as well. Honey had already gasped and stood by that point, running from the buttery like a mad woman, heart beating against her chest in a thundering rhythm. She did not stop her sprint until she had reached the servant’s quarters. As she laid down, she could remember praying to the Maker that Cristofer did not recognize her and that this would all be over that night.

            _It wasn’t._

            The next morning, Honey was almost lulled into thinking she’d dreamed the entire thing. That was until Truman asked her over. He was in the garden and called her from the walkway beside the library. Honey made her way to him, as he waited with a patient face.

            “Yes master Truman?”

            “How did you sleep?” Honey was confused by the question and instantly nervous.

            “I slept fine, m’lord.” She could see by the half smirk on his face that he knew. And she fought every sense she had not to run away.

            “Come with me, Honey.” He said. She had no choice but to follow. Her mind was filled with images of torture she’d read in books. She tried to think of her offense—yes it was a quirk that could spur jokes in taverns but she knew of Noblemen who spoke of it to each other. She hadn’t seen anything wrong had she—anything she could be…killed for.

            She saw Maxwell, in all his handsomeness and splendor, standing at the far side of the garden, behind the stables. Beside him was one of the beast masters who walked into the stable when he saw her. Her eyes wanted to follow him but they stayed on Maxwell and his cold eyes and tight mouth. She saw more than just anger in those eyes. She saw contempt.

            “Do not be careless again,” Truman said to his brother sternly before he left her side, left her cold and afraid.

The instant Truman began his walk, Maxwell slapped her so hard that Honey nearly lost footing, grasping her face as she cried out in pain.

“Shut up.” He said harshly. Honey inhaled, eyes wide, flinching as he stood her straight only to slap her even harder this time, leaving her in the grass and unable to stop her eyes from pooling. Her face stung, hotly so.

“Get up.” He ordered. Honey nearly disobeyed but with shaking legs and trembling arms, she slowly rose, not looking him in the eye. “You aren’t supposed to be spying.”

“No m’lord.” She choked out. A backhand sent her to the ground again and she cried out again, grass a pool of green in her swimming vision. Tears just kept falling.

“I will give you to the count of five to get up and stop your crying. Now.” Maxwell’s beautiful lips spoke those words and Honey rose as quick as she could, body shaking violently as she tried to suppress her tears. He hated her, she realized. Hated her for seeing…. “You aren’t supposed to be creeping around at night. Your duties were done.” She could only nod, afraid of her voice. He scoffed. “You do something like that again, and we’ll ship you off to the mountains and let the raiders take you. Do you understand me?” Again, she nodded. “You’re lucky I haven’t cut out your tongue. Or your eyes.” She trembled harder. “Gavin.”

The beast master was out again and had a rope in hand. Seeing it, Honey knew.

“Please—oh please Master, I won’t do anything else or tell anyone—”

            “You spy, you get punished.” He said coldly as Gavin took her arm roughly and led her to the post within the barn. She tried to resist…and to resist the urge to resist, knowing it would only make it worse for her. It was a strange thing, submitting to one’s own beating, to needless pain. Yet she knew she needed to, even though she fought it as much as she could, digging in her heels. She called out to Maxwell and begged, face a mess of tears and fear. Maxwell simply crossed his arms to her pain, to her pleas as the beast master tied her wrists around the thick log.

            “You’ll return to your post when you can collect yourself.” Maxwell said. And then he was walking away, not even staying to witness as the cattle whip was reared back and laid across the back of her dress. It stung and the fabric ripped and Honey cried more that day than she could remember ever crying before. After ten, she was untied and left there with another dress to put on. And when she could cry no more, she stood up and walked back in through the library hall and to the kitchens, passing by Paven once more running after little Lisbeth, who nearly knocked into her. As she entered the room full of scullions, Ma’am looked up…and Honey knew that Ma’am was aware of what happened. The woman looked her over for two seconds and grabbed a slip of paper.

            “Well don’t just stand there,” she snapped, “go help Tigris with the butter.”

_It’s strange how little things lead to misunderstandings and so much mess thereafter. The night of Maxwell’s homecoming was forever the bane of Honey’s time in House Trevelyan but came about not only because of Trevelyan cruelty but because she did not see what truly was._

            Throughout the night of the feast in honor of Max and the Templars, Maxwell Trevelyan had been looking down the way past Truman, not just to look towards his brother but to look towards the end of the table, the place of the least honor but still respect, where his lover Cristofer sat, making eyes at him all night and promising later demonstrations of what those eyes were calling for.

            Truman Trevelyan saw Honey’s affections and alerted Maxwell.

            “You have her smitten,” he told him.

            “Never.” Max laughed, shaking his head. “Not my type of girl, even if I would go elf.” They shared the laugh then and Truman later gestured his cup towards the highborn servant table where just beside Alice sat Daisy, daughter of Luanda.

            “That’s my type of girl,” He said, eyeing his brother.

            “I prefer a ginger, or a dark.” Max scoffed and then chuckled. Truman turned to look at Celia who gave him frank eyes that said “I heard you.” Beneath the table, his hand wrapped around her thigh.

            “I think I like dark too.” He said softly, to which his cousin rolled her eyes. But she did not move his hand from her.

            Honey did not even think to look for Truman who went to see his brother that evening dressing in clothes too casual for his status.

            “Don’t be careless.” He said, brow furrowed.

            “I’m not.” Max grinned. Truman couldn’t help but grin back.

            “And no sex.” He said suddenly. “You’re too young.”

            “I already know how to do it.” Max said proudly.

            “Knowing ‘how’ and doing it are different, Templar.” Truman said frankly. “And this night will not be your first time. I already made Cris promise me.”

            “Truman!”

            “Well, I knew you wouldn’t listen.” Truman couldn’t help but smirk as he swung the door to near closed and headed back to his own room, blowing out two candles as he passed. Within, he saw a shawl on his bed and stopped to turn the lock on his own door. He was already taking his shirt from its tucked position in his pants as he walked into his boudoir. On the settee was Celia, laying on her side.

            “So Daisy is who you use when you can’t have me in your arms.” She said. Her golden gown was already unlaced in the back. Truman loosened his own garments, pulling off his vest.

            “I haven’t used Daisy.” He said, stripping off his boots and coming around to kneel before her legs, taking her hosed feet in his hands. She smiled down at him.

            “You flirt with the idea of having her in front of me.” She said as he began to roll down the stockings. Her face was very kind, even as she spoke the course words.

            “You flirt with the idea of having all the young knights in front of me.” Truman reminded her, smoothing his hands over her legs.

            “That’s true.” She said. “But I haven’t had them.”

            “And I haven’t had Daisy.”

            “Because you can use me instead?” Her question was said with the slightest waver. Truman sighed and crawled above her.

            “I don’t use you.” He said slowly. “I love you.” She smiled. “You know that. Now are you going to let me show you I love you, and want you…or must we wait to get caught first?”

            Her smile was shy but mischievous as well and in seconds, Truman had her smallclothes bottoms off, her gown on the floor, and had carried her to his bed. Once there, they were both naked and he had his cock deep inside her as she held onto him and tried to silence her moans of pleasure while he wrapped her tight in his arms and covered her lips with his own. He thrusted into her with power and rhythm, but not roughness, making sure to hear some sound of pleasure from her with each one. She had fingers in his hair, another on his rear, shaking as they made the bed creak ever so softly. It would need to be oiled.

            “Tell me you love me.” Truman would say. Truman liked to hear it from her, from the women he loved. And Celia would say she loved him, after he impressed her: hit inside her from a different angle, kissed her until she was panting, called her his Lady. She meant it when she said it.

            Inopportunely, the two were nearly to orgasm when the knock came. When it did not cease, Truman swore—something he rarely did. Standing, he grabbed his nightshirt and asked who was there, voice as courteous as he could make it.

            “Tru, it’s me.” Max’s voice was tight and wavering. “Something happened.”

            “Wait Max.” Truman sighed. “I thought you were—”

“Cris is scared, Truman.” Max talked over him. “I need your help. It’s bad and…and we can’t decide what to do.”

 

* * *

 

**_3_ **

_Spying is a strange thing, which is sometimes tolerated and other times damned. One type is observation and another is malicious ogling. Truman punished it from Honey. But not from everyone._

            Lisbeth loved to be chased as a child. She loved to run away and have someone snatch her up in their arms, only to release her and start again. She also loved chasing, though not nearly as much because she could never lift anyone off their feet. Being this small also came with advantages, like squeezing into places without anyone noticing. She wasn’t a clumsy child and slipping beneath the notice of those bigger was not hard to do if she actually tried.

            She was seven, and it was 9:19. She didn’t know it, but later this year she would be weeping as she was taken from home and sent to the circle. But for now she was roaming about the house, evading Melina, her sitter, and Rose, her playmate. But they were not who she was hiding from at present. It was Paven, sweet Paven. The elf as old as her brother Brycen who would always play with her when no one else would and help her with whatever came into her young mind. He was so endeared to her that he’d been moved from full-time groom to another of her keepers, though on the weekends, he did become groom once more. She liked to watch him when he was groom and he would let her go riding on any horse she wanted and tell her stories about halla and dragon riders, and he’d made her flower bracelets too.

            Now, she was skirting from place to place, her dress loose over thin pants. She had her hair in a bun but it was loosening. She was in the library now so it was easier to hide and move between the rows. She’d lost him in the Great Hall, just outside the library and she knew she had mere minutes before he caught her trail.

            She remembered she had slunk beneath tables, with their librarian snorting at her, and ran towards the door to the hallways leading knights quarters. She’d skipped across the empty barracks, all the soldiers out for drills now and the straggler or two moving quickly out too. They weren’t real soldiers yet if not there already. Squires and pages, they were. She smiled at those who saw her and giggled to herself at how she surely should have duped Paven now. Past the barracks was the armory. She knew she could hide there! It was perfect!

            She made her way to it and as she did, realized that the armory was locked and she would need a key to open it. Dismayed, she turned around and decided to double back. There had to be some place for her to squeeze into. Already, she thought she could hear Paven’s voice behind her. She left back to the Great Hall and through it, to the hallway leading to the solar. She opened the door and slipped inside of the room. It was almost as ostentatious as the Hall—though Lisbeth didn’t know that word yet. It had beautiful cream walls with purple diamonds littered in linear patterns across it. On one side was a business set up with desks, armchairs, footrests, and a bar ready to hold buckets of ice and wine. On the other was a wooden panel divider around a small bed as well as three long couches and a chess table.

            The divider was not usually drawn but today it was, obscuring the bed from view. Lisbeth let the door close and suddenly she could hear sounds from behind that divider—faint but there. She crept closer, curious, and heard voices.

            “Oh Truman, harder.”

            It sounded like……

            “Oh! Truman….”

            It was Daisy. Lisbeth was sure of it. She gasped, hands on her mouth but did so at the same time as Daisy gasped as well. Wanting to laugh, she made her way towards the divider faster but still with quiet feet. She could hear the panting now, and a sound…

            That really was Truman. Lisbeth could notice her brother’s voice anywhere. She was almost ready to pee, her anticipation was so great.

            And then she was peeking behind the divider. And her eyes widened at what she saw.

            Daisy, face to the bed, rear in the air, was in front of Truman who was moving back and forth behind her. He held her butt in one hand and twisted her arm behind her back with the other. She was moaning, and saying his name. Truman was grunting and saying nothing. His vest was off and his pants were at his knees. He was not on the bed but she was, with dress at her shoulders.

            Lisbeth wanted to laugh as she saw them. What in Thedas were they doing? She could see Truman’s butt muscles moving. She suppressed a giggle at that. But then Daisy moaned very loud and Truman’s hand released her butt and grabbed her throat, pulling her upright.

            “Not too loud,” he whispered gently.

            But Lisbeth was perplexed. She frowned, a bit uncertain. He grabbed her throat…tight, she could see the fingers tense. Was he hurting her? Why?

            No! No, Truman couldn’t be hurting her. Truman did not hurt good people and never ladies. She knew it to be true. Not her beloved brother. He was kind and gallant and loving.

            But that couldn’t explain what he was doing to Daisy….  Lisbeth huffed. She had to put this all straight again.

            “Truman.” She whispered and her brother turned sharply, eyes wide as they stared at her. She saw how surprised he was and had to laugh. He reached for his pants, a smirk forming on his mouth, and Lisbeth was off. She ran from the divider and across the room to the hall she’d just come through. She realized there were two doors after she started towards the far one in which she’d come and when she made to change directions, she felt hands on either side of her, lifting her. She knew it was Truman and squealed as he pressed her to him, growling in her ears in mock frustration. She rejoiced as she was spun.

            “Lithel one!” He called, a nickname they’d built together, him imitating her speech from her youth. It was mock scolding and Lisbeth laughed and hung onto him as they went round. He carried her from the room and out to the front grounds, planting kisses on her cheeks and neck.

            “I saw your butt!” She snickered. “And I saw it move!”

            “What have we said about spying?” He asked her, eyebrow arched.

            “I didn’t spy.” Lisbeth said. He made to drop her and she shrieked with delight, holding onto him. “Okay, okay, you said it’s not good to spy. But I couldn’t help it.”

            “When you caught sight, you should have moved away, beloved.” He said to her. Lisbeth nodded into his shoulder, closing her eyes as they walked through sunshine towards the small chapel on the side of their house. He stopped outside of it.

            “Lisbeth?” He asked.

            “Mm-hm?”

            “Don’t spy anymore, okay?” He said, making her look at him. “This is the third time. Any more, I’ll have to tell Sister Baila. Do you want her to make you apologize to the Maker?” Lisbeth shook her head no. “Okay, well you can’t do that anymore.”

            “Truman?” She had to ask the question. He started to carry her back.

            “Lithel One?”

            “You weren’t…you wouldn’t hurt her—Daisy—or any lady, I mean. Right?” She asked him the question with a pained face. She had to know. He grinned then, almost ready to laugh, and she could not tell why. He held her to his hip and stroked her cheek.

            “I would never hurt a lady.” He affirmed. “You know this, Lisbeth.” He made her stay looking at him. “And you know I would die before I hurt the ones I love.” He smiled. “Like you, my love.” That made her mouth turn upright.

            “I love you too, Truman.” She said, smiling into his face.

            “I know you do.” He said. She tightened her arms around his neck and kissed him, drawing back for him to kiss her forehead. He laughed and suddenly she saw him out of the corner of her eye then—Paven was running for them, determination on his face. Lisbeth squealed and Truman saw him as well and held her in place, foiling her chances to escape. He released her from his safe arms to Paven’s, who stood triumphant.

            “Not fair!” She cried but now she would have to chase. She ran with a final wave at Truman who gave one back and chased after her friend.

            _It was years later that she would understand exactly what had happened between Truman and Daisy. And in the time it took her to learn that, she also learned many other, less fortunate things: things like loss, heartbreak, pain, and longing. But she would also come to learn better truths: truths of love, family, passion, and religion._

_But that’s for the next chapter, and some happen far in the future. Our very next tale takes us to the circle. Right after Lisbeth departs from home in fact, with tears in her sweet brown eyes._


	2. 4-6

_Interlude_

_Once again, I have to extrapolate on the importance of those directly affecting the lives of the Trevelyans, especially our lady herald. It is therefore necessary to supply you with yet more names, these ones from the circle in Ostwick. I will not exhaust you._

_First, to once again remind you of some who can be seen within the Trevelyan manor: Ronald and Dawn Trevelyan lord over the territory, raising their five children: Truman, Maxwell, Grace, Brycen, and Lisbeth. They foster a noble son Cristofer and house their nieces Celia Kolette and Anne Campo, along with other of their kin. The Commander of the knights is Westin Cain, whose right hand is Antonelli. Ma’am rules the kitchens that Honey and Tigris work in, Paven is a groom, and Mum is the nursemaid and caretaker for the five lords and ladies to be._

_The circle held no Trevelyan’s besides Lisbeth, save for a distant cousin or two, but friends all the same. Lisbeth would meet Senior Enchanter Lydia there and fellow mages Lilley, Rodney, and Serinda. She would also re-meet a Serah Dwight Lancel, Templar deployed to Ostwick a few years before her stay._

_You must also understand that, though circles have become synonymous with prison, the one is Ostwick was far from the gallows of Kirkwall. In fact, most mages in the free Marches enjoyed more freedom than even Templars. Kirkwall’s circle was an anomaly, a stain on the region. Any Ferelden with their hands on this text should know that circles further south were the ones with strict boundaries. They’ll gripe and protest, defending the treatment of their mages, but all of South Thedas, besides the Imperial Court, was tougher on the mage. Besides Kirkwall and a happening at Starkhaven, the Free Marches were not as much. The well-kept secret in the Marches was that its circles were less like prisons and more like boarding schools._

_That is how young Lisbeth ended up traveling home, even as an apprentice, and bringing her servant with her into the cirlce’s employment. Though she took a Templar home with her during her visits, she was allowed home nonetheless, all her years there; and very frequently._

_Magic was feared and treated with caution but was not a mark of damnation. It was a curse but also a blessing—one that did not stop Lisbeth from going on to make her mark on Thedas in the years to come._

_Interlude End_

 

* * *

 

**_4_ **

_The times Lisbeth felt betrayed by her family were few and her time at the circle was one of them. The first month away from home, she scarcely slept without crying, not understanding why she had to leave her siblings. She was only seven, after all…._

_She had only the company of her servant Paven. It was originally Melina but when Lisbeth requested the elf, her parents couldn’t deny her, even if they’d be down a groom. It was the greatest gift to Paven and, later, the greatest curse, costing him as much as he gained._

            The young elf had lived in the Trevelyan manor since he was three, recruited by Cain who saw him still alive after being abandoned in some park or another. Paven was nursed to health and earned his keep, running as an errand boy and, soon, a groom-to-be. He had worked around the horses since he was six but had been Lisbeth’s playmate since he was seven, and her favorite servant thereafter.

            By the time the two left for the circle together, he was completely in love with her.

            It was a young love he felt, a boyish nine-year-old love that made him want to see her smile and make her garlands and bracelets. He wanted to hug her and follow her and protect her from harm.

            It was a month into her stay that Lisbeth’s homesickness became too much for her and she sat in her quarters, sobbing and refusing to budge. Lilley tried to move her but even a friendly face did not sway the young Lisbeth Trevelyan, so used to doing as she pleased and facing consequences fitting for lesser crimes. The honey-haired girl mussed her curls in frustration, her snowy skin now tinged with pink. She huffed and left the chambers in her velveteen apprentice robes, seeking the boy. She tried to remember where she had seen him last and indeed, Paven was in the dining halls, wiping down chairs. She had to shake him from his mindless workings.

            “Come with me.” She said.

            “Messere,” Paven was nervous to disobey her—even just a mage that she was. “I can’t—”

            “You’re from Lisbeth’s house, right?” Lilley asked. Paven’s ears perked up at the mention and he nodded. “Well, she’s going to be in trouble if you don’t come with me.”

            Paven didn’t need to be told twice and moved slowly through the room, trying not to notice the eyes on him. They walked down the hallways, past the library and the toilets and the classrooms. They walked up the stairs to the quarters where mages were walking to their assigned places, all in orange and red robes. He walked behind Lilley who pointed him in the direction.

            “I have to go before I get in trouble,” she told him. “She comes or she doesn’t.” The girl left the room and Paven was left to his own capabilities. He inched ever closer to where his love sat, woe begotten and melancholy. He smoothed his recently-cut ginger locks and slowly trudged towards her.

            She sat on her bunk, in the same apprentice robes of the circle. Her own hair was recently cut shorter. At her shoulders it sat, twisted in such a way that it almost had a wave in it. Paven was demure in his approach. Her puffy eyes and indignant sniffles made him frown.

            “I’m not going.” She said as soon as he came to her.

            “They’re waiting…for you, mistress.” He said to the floor. She said nothing, gazing at the nothing in front of her instead of the boy beside her. She was all roots and no budge. Paven decided to set his own, sitting on her bed at the foot—right in her line of sight.

            “Move from my sight.” She ordered, pretty eyes glaring so harshly.

            “I can’t do that.” He said.

            “You’ll move!” She reached with both hands and pushed him harder than he expected, nearly getting him off. She kept her weight on, screaming as loud as she dared. “Move! Or I’ll have you punished!”

            Paven felt the chill roll over his back then and he grit his teeth. He pushed against her hard then and sat firmly on her bed then, with her unable to begin again because he was holding onto the post. She shrieked and kicked him as she got up and walked over to the window past the two beds beside her own. She folded her arms in front of it, tears falling over her cheeks, wondering no doubt how the world could be so corrupt. She felt like a prisoner while Paven felt like a lucky boy, all things considered.

            He stood and walked towards her and she spied him in her periphery, rolling her eyes and beginning to walk from the room. Paven followed behind. She glanced back and glared, threatening him with her expression and walked faster. He quickened his pace, adrenaline beginning to build. She moved faster, and he followed suit. She took a turn and he mirrored her steps. The change in her legs happened and then she was trotting two steps before it was a sprint. Paven took off after her as she ran down the stairs, caught between desire and fear of catastrophe striking on these stones. It did not, instead leading the two of them past several amused or bewildered eyes as Lisbeth tore through the walls of the circle, with him hot on her heels.

            There was nostalgia in the motions and Paven couldn’t help but feel a ghost smile appear on his face as he chased her past classrooms and the library, and then past Templars who put hands on thier dulled swords, unsure if they should stop the play—unaware that their new mage needed to be in class.

            She was his prize and his leader all at once, stomps echoing off the steps like beacons to him in the purposelessness of his life. Paven heard them louder as he pushed harder, fingers tingling with the thought of having her, of catching her.

            He did not have to wait long for Lisbeth was unwise, turning down the hall onto which she did. Templar Lancel and other senior mages stepped out of the pantry where they’d been, onto her path. They’d spied her. She stopped in her tracks but there was no escaping them, escaping their judgment. Paven saw the tensing of her shoulders and could almost smell her fear.

            That was why he ran into her, putting hands over her shoulders and turning her to face him.

            Her tears were gone but worry still darkened her gaze and he looked into those brown eyes with his green ones and stepped in front of her, mind thinking of the first thing he could.

            “You left…the paper.” He panted. Lisbeth’s eyes narrowed in confusion and Paven could see the feet coming to them, hear the “boy” or “girl” that would follow. He continued, louder. “You forgot the paper in the dining hall, messere. The ones with your notes, you…you left it. I was—was trying to stop you.”

            Lisbeth’s face was still uncertain but by that time, the adults were near.

            “Lisbeth.” The mage said sternly. “You’re supposed to be in class. Go and get whatever notes these are and hurry back. You shouldn’t have to run to your instruction in the first place.”

            “I...yes.” Lisbeth said. The Templar chortled at her and she walked slowly back the way she came. Paven followed by her side, cheeks flushed, feeling his skin buzz from the excitement of it. When they began their climb, she sighed and Paven gave a small, slight laugh, glancing her way. She looked at him with eyes of affection, which put him at ease.

            But then her hand found its way into his own and he was nervous again, his cheeks reddening even more, if such a thing was even possible. She seemed to take solace in the touch and held onto him as they walked, seemingly oblivious to the looks given by the Templars they passed on the way back. To those who did speak, Lisbeth explained her destination.

            They did not have to affirm that she would go to class. She was indeed, with a blank piece of parchment in tow. But as she went to her rooms to procure one, she smiled at her friend, eyes losing their red glossiness.

            “I like you being here, Pav.” She said and Paven looked away, smiling stupidly and nodding at the floor. She sighed happily and then spoke with a more sorrowful voice. “Only I wish mother…and Grace and-and Truman.” Her lip trembled at his name. “I wish I could see them. I wish Truman were here too….”

            Paven could say nothing but he took the step to her and hugged her. She let him, pressing her head into his chest. There was a fire in it that Paven had felt before, though not in such a place, or at such a time. As she stood and walked away, he breathed deep and hoped it would die, face contorted in irritation.

            He knew that he was jealous of Truman Trevelyan then. He felt the prickly disgust at the thought of him, when Lisbeth wanted him even when Paven had taken care of her and saved her from trouble.

            _He would never shake his jealousy of Truman after that, just as Lisbeth would never shake her longing for her brother’s wisdom and protection. Her trust in him was complete, with nearly no doubts. Truman’s affections were equal to hers, desiring her safety and presence and, when she became older, her ideas. It was engrained in him, this need to protect all his siblings, especially Lisbeth—indeed, she incentivized this need for him, and more. Year in and out, Lisbeth had monopoly over that special place in Truman’s life, and he would love her as if she were an extension of himself, a piece of his heart separated from his chest._

_This love would not change until much later, when Lisbeth shed her starry-eyed youth and became a woman; but that is getting ahead of ourselves._

            No, for now, Truman was in his own agony, and trained in the yard of the manor, distracted so much that Cris was able to disarm him for the second time. His friend laughed and picked up the blade, putting it back into Truman’s steady but sloppy hands.

            “You’re clouding.” Cristofer shook his head. “Stop thinking of her.”

            “Yes, of course.” Truman mumbled. “But we should see her, the state of her wellbeing-”

            “Yes and you sail tomorrow but at this rate, I don’t trust you to look after your wellbeing.” Cris was all jokes today. “I think any pirates you saw would take you out in one swipe.” He sliced his own sword through the air. Truman chuckled and sighed, his leather armor not protecting him from the breeze of this time of year, the breezes that took away his sister and brought with them only imaginings of her mistreatment. Or worse, possession.

            Gazing about, he frowned as he spied his other sister to his left. Only twelve and Grace looked like she’d been at swordplay for almost as long as Maxwell. She wore leather armor too, pants and a shirt that did not disguise her sex nor prettiness. Her hair was tied into a tail and she was able to block the highborn’s swings. She was dueling some landowner’s son or the other—there were so many working for them, Truman could hardly remember their names. Her attacks were not the best and her flat-strikes needed a great deal of work but her blocks and parries were very smooth, very clean. She had been playing swords with Maxwell since before he left for Templar training and had not stopped trying her hand at them since he’d left. Truman refused to fight with her but allowed a select few to fight in his stead.

            This one, however, had become too irate it seemed. He was too aggressive and seemed to be upset at the lady’s evasions. While Grace wore her smirk, he wore a pout, lip just barely curled into the semblance of a snarl. Truman found it laughable, knowing that many a woman in his family could best any knight—not like Grace was doing now but through unconventional matters: there were blades tied to thighs, gymnastics that could leave bruises, and knowledge of any poisons, mixtures, and herbs that could get rid of a man should they desire or weaken him into the perfect puppet.

            He finally bested her, though. Bringing the flat of the sword up at the right moment, he broke her wall of defense and caught her thigh. She moved her hands too far and he twisted to hit her in the ribs then. She teetered and sunk to the ground, cursing him with words like “stupid.”

            The hit was not what set Truman off, for he had been able to convince himself not to rage at the pain his sister might take during trainings. He was in control.

            No, what angered Truman was the look of triumph on the highborn’s face. There was glee and pride following her submission—his sister’s submission. Cristofer saw his friend’s eyes and sighed.

            “Truman—”

            Truman’s hand came up and silenced the man with a single wave. He eased over to where the boy was yet grinning and moving to the edge of the dust circle to begin again, not even bothering to help lady Grace to her feet, just leaving her to use her sword as a support. How worthless.

            Truman made it within a yard of the boy when Grace spied him. She would not be silenced like Cris had been.

            “Do not, Truman.” She said with all the iciness she could be known for.

            The boy turned, a lad of only fourteen it looked like, and Truman—an eighteen year old near man—deftly reached out his arm, strides long to close the gap, and grabbed the boy by his throat.

            Eyes wide with shock, he gasped, hands going over the young lord’s own and Truman gave him a cool stare, fingers clamped tight.

            “I said do not.” Grace was walking across the distance now, looking annoyed. “It was a match that he won—”

            “I saw.” Truman had a faint smile that did not touch his eyes and the boy struggled in his grip, trying to back away and afraid to put hands on anything but master Truman’s own.

            “So to win, you need to beat your enemy.” Grace made it to Truman’s side and gazed at him with eyes that did not show the pain Truman knew she was in. He nodded, eyes never leaving the boy even as his peripheral gaze saw Cris too walk over.

            “Yes, he was very happy to beat you.” Truman said. “Weren’t you?”

            “It was just a match,” The boy struggled to speak. As he did, Truman tightened his grip.

            “Truman, are you going to make a scene of nothing?” Grace asked, shaking her head.

            “No.” He decided, sighing. “He won fairly.” Without another word, Truman punched the boy in the ribs, hard enough for the crack to be heard, sending the boy with a cough and a cry down to his knees, neck released. “And when you duel tomorrow, the field will remain fair.”

            “Maker—” Grace stopped and composed herself. “Was it necessary for you?”

            “Your sore would put you at a disadvantage.” Truman said slyly. “I gave him the same. Disadvantage dissolved.”

            “And you dissuaded him from dueling with her again, Truman,” Cris muttered, grinning despite himself.

            “Oh he’ll duel.” Truman said with eyes on the boy who was moaning in pain, glaring up at him. “If my sister—Lady Grace—asks anything of him…he will perform.”

            Grace sighed prettily and turned her face as her brother tried to kiss her. His lips settled for her cheek and parting hand, feeling contentedness even as she gave him a long roll of her grey eyes and left the three of them behind her as she glided away from the wreckage.

 

* * *

 

 

**_5_ **

            _If Lisbeth was the princess of the house, then Grace Trevelyan was the female heir. Unlike her sister, she favored underlings rather than allies and was most at home when she knew she could ‘do it all’ by herself. Groomed for chantry service and household leadership should anything happen to Truman, Grace was a sharp girl who rarely lost her composure._

_Except when she did._

            Truman’s overprotective nature did irk Grace at times but it was nothing compared to Maxwell’s fury. Truman was calculative and could control himself enough. Max had no such filter, no such control. She shuddered to think of the mages who turned apostate on his watch.

            Lisbeth, like Max, had been gone for three years once the circle took her. Grace had stood by calmly while it happened and then gone to her room and cried afterward. The look in her sister’s eyes was unbearable. The realization did not hit Lisbeth until too late and Grace could do nothing—none of them could.

            Their homecoming was as momentous as Maxwell’s had been the first time, only this time Lisbeth came with senior enchanters and a Templar escort. Max had come the week before, Truman had returned home for her arrival, and Brycen was still here, though not for much longer, and even Grace knew that. Her father wanted to send him away so he couldn’t embarrass them but mother could not decide which schooling would be most beneficial for his talents—that being the pen and composing poetry. Grace had to admit it was good—so much that it could bring a room to tears, no matter the voice that spoke the words.

            Her sister looked still a child but taller now, with long hair shorn by her shoulders. Grace battled Truman to her, losing as she knew she would but getting her turn. Brycen had teased their little Beth and Max saluted her with faux formality, earning Lisbeth’s tongue directed at him.

            The family was together, for the first time in quite some time. Grace felt like it’d been a century but only a few years had passed.

            9:22 and the Maker made her a fifteen year old beauty who drew the eyes of the noble boys around her age and others still—men who pretended not to glance, girls who looked at her with envy, and all other manner of fellows who revered the girl well-known in the chantry, even performing duties of cleric helper and chanter on occasion.

            Dwight Lancel in particular caught her fancy—just as she caught his. He was only as old as Truman and his youth showed against the ages of his companions. Grace was not the type to fall for a uniform but felt something when she saw him. It was interest, of the romantic kind. Grace had only felt such when reading romantic epics or when eyeing that one Antivan traveler’s son who had left her too soon to get to know her well. She also felt some semblance of it in the arms of her dutiful servant Alice. Grace had used her when the need for touch had been unbearable during the first three years of puberty. Though Daisy had also been pretty enough and flirtatious besides, Grace was not moved to lust by her.

_She also despised their age gap and that Truman had gotten the girl first._

            But her encounters with servant girls and one male love did not make her immune to men. Grace dreamed of them and taunted them, but never could she find any acceptable in her grasp. No highborn boys met her standards and no lowborn were worthy enough to touch her. Alice the servant was highborn herself and shared Grace’s bed and secrets throughout the years. The girl had earned the privilege of Grace’s body and affections with her loyalty, her birth, and her chastity, which Grace allowed her to let go of only after her fingers had been there first—all the middle three reaching inside as far as they could go.

            But this night, she saw someone worthy. She saw Dwight Lancel, a Templar of Ostwick circle. Fair-skinned and brown-haired with a somewhat roguish glint, he caught the older daughter’s eye all night and spoke to her when he could, barely disguising his interest.

            “I hear you know the sword yourself.” He tried to make conversation light, asking questions of her interests and health, instead of her desires and dreams.

            “I have trained with it since I was seven.” She confided in him.

            “I’d like to see it sometime—since I’ll be here.” He said. “If you wish to show me of course. My lady.” She could only nod in response.

            _And show him, she did._

            Grace made good on her promise that month and invited him to watch her spar with any noble boy she chose. The compliments from Lancel were ceaseless but critiques were not far behind. He would make suggestions, shout corrections, and take her arms to reposition her.

            “The way the chapter suggests you fight, when you have no shield,” he’d tell her, “is with a less locked stance. Your defense is strong. But you have no room to attack, no room to turn a parry into a riposte.”

            He would stand behind her, arms on hers, and she would peek up at him beneath her long, curly locks. Dwight slipped more than once, and Grace saw the appreciation in his eyes, the kind a man had for a woman. The kind Alice had when she was on her knees, mouth sucking Grace’s cunt for near an hour long.

            For weeks, they danced like so, him giving offerings to Grace and Grace leaving him with intangible, hidden promises. Many nights, she would release with Alice and fantasize doing the same with Dwight. She would blush when encountering him after such excursions, though it didn’t show, Maker be good. Somehow, she believed he knew about it. Dwight Lancel looked at her with brown eyes that held a secret intuition.

            Those eyes captured Grace one night in the library, the week before he was to leave with Lisbeth and his entourage with him. Grace did not realize the thought of him leaving would hurt as much as it did then. For the first time, she did not feel threatened or so far superior to someone who had caught her fancy. She felt happy and content. To lose the source of this feeling….

            “You should come watch the sport tomorrow.” He told her. “It’ll be our last.” Grace nodded and Dwight brushed a curl that fell before her eyes. She smiled up at him and found her face changing against her will. She cleared her throat. That did not remove the lump.

            “I’ll miss you…Serah.” She told him then, when their half hour of conversation stretched too long to be decent and the library emptied too much. The words brought a smile to his face, which in turn brought a song to Grace’s heart. He took her hand and pressed it to his lips, smiling dreamily at her with genuine warmth, and genuine regret.

            “That means a great deal to me, my lady.” He said, voice hushed. “I hope to see more of you during Lisbeth’s visits home….” The words were drenched with riddles and double-speak and Grace could not resist taking her hand back and instead putting lips to his clean face. A light press and lingering contact set Grace’s chest aflame. Her exhale was too girlish for her fifteen years and she giggled, stepping back from him.

            His hand was swift when it cupped her chin. The movement made Grace’s breath catch again and the smoldering in his eyes kept her breath at bay. In one fluid motion, he kissed her lips, quickly and chastely. It was done in a moment but Grace felt like it could have gone on forever, dizzy as it made her. He sighed after, stepping back.

            “You’re a beauty and a wonder, lady Grace.” He whispered, took her hand and kissed it once more. When he finally released her with a bow, Grace felt like she might faint. Walking as steadily as she could, she made her way from the library and to her chambers, where Alice was already setting her nightgown. Seeing her face, the girl rushed over.

            “My lady, are you alright?” She asked. Grace nodded and the girlish smile was on her face before she could stop it.

            “He kissed me, Alice.” She said.

            “Who?”

            “Dwight….” Grace told her. “Dwight kissed me.”

_Grace stayed up telling the story to her chamberlain, tittering like the young bird she was, removed for a brief time from the trappings of her birth and duty. The two giggled about the Templar until their eyes became heavy and they laid down together, Alice hugging her mistress and Grace hugging herself, body warm in a way it had so seldom been. The icy sister had done it; she’d finally found the man to melt her._

_Found and lost, of course._

            Only an hour had passed when Alice was awakened by the sounds of running. She had always been a light sleeper and these steps came from down the hall, from the other Trevelyan rooms. Truman was acting Lord tonight: the Bann was gone away on business in Starkhaven and the Lady Dawn would be back in the morning, called away to a relative. Alice rose from the bed and took a candle with her. The sun was not yet up, she realized, and as she walked, she could hear no more feet. She almost went back to bed but decided to retrieve water since she was already halfway down the steps.

            Her feet traveled the halls and brought her to others, boots instead of slippers, and leading down the hallway, to the great hall. She recognized who. It was Bryce Trevelyan, following Paven. Alice was bemused and wished she’d brought her robe, realizing the indecency of her appearance. She followed the, whispering greetings and questions, and stepped into the light of the great hall.

            And then, as soon as she was able, Alice set her candle on a table and scurried back out. She was frightened by the scene—no. No, she had been almost frozen in place. Only the empathetic part of her mind had moved her, the part that thought of her mistress Grace—that part that had to warn her.

            “Grace!” Alice yelled at her, after taking the steps by two, tripping at the landing, and bursting into the room. Grace was startled awake and gazed at her, incredulous. “Grace, they’re hurting him! They’re hurting Dwight!”

_The words would stay with Grace, years later, repeated bitterly when brooding or drunk. The events of that night would remain etched on her memory, as many nights would haunt the Trevelyan siblings in the years to come._

            An hour before Grace was awoken, grabbed her robe and ran down the steps behind Alice, anger filling her hotly, Maxwell was in his own bed. With company.

            “Maker….”

            The word was siphoned from him by some power he couldn’t really name. All he could focus on, all he could feel, was Cris inside him, hands over his, holding them down, chest to Max’s back.

            “Come on…come on….” Cris murmured the words, whispering with lips sliding over Max’s neck as he did, never stopping his movement, never releasing his grip on the core of the younger’s being. Maxwell fought not to answer, fought every sound that came from him. He always fought it, always resisted the moans and cries that wanted to escape him, especially when Cris had him undone so well.

            Max could feel every touch Cris had ever given him. When Cris slipped into him and touched him in that place that made him shudder like a leaf, Max wanted to collapse and draw the cock further into him all at once. It was just so damned good, and did things to him that….

            He would feel the moan in his throat and forced it into a grunt. He would inhale the cry and exhale through his nose in a sharp gust as Cris sunk into him: deep, and then deeper still.

            “You like me inside you….” Cris hissed this into his ear and put both hands on Max’s chest, raising him up. Max knew he was going to lose before he did. He closed his eyes and grabbed one of Cris’s hands, breathing shakily. Cris’s smile was more felt than seen.

            “You’re taking me so far…” he was panting. “I’m going to finish inside you.”

            Cris was thrusting hard, thrusting through the canal, to the bundle of nerves that forced the sound out of Max’s throat, uninhibited by his clenched jaw.

            He’d lost.

            “Right there,” He heard himself groan, grabbing at Cris’s lightning fast rear. Cris pulled at Max’s nipples with one hand and stroked his cock with another. The heat was starting. “Maker’s breath….”

            Cris pushed Max forward so his hands were on the headboard, then righted his hips before turning into a battering ram.

            “I’m going to…” Max moaned into the wood before him. He gripped it with fists and bit it with fangs. “I’m almost…” He felt his eye twitching, felt his stomach tightening.

            “You’re going to spurt for me.” Cris panted. “Do it! Do it!”

            Max did as he was commanded, unable to do anything but. Cris fucked and jerked the liquid from Max’s cock, the white hitting the pillow and making Max give a strangled cry, body taught and shaking as he ejaculated for too long but too short.

            When Cris had spilled inside him, the two men laid out in the bed, dirty pillow tossed to the side. Cris wrapped himself around Max as the young lord reclined. The stillness settled over them with talks about things so mundane they were laughable.

            _Only, they weren’t._

            “I still feel awake.” Max laughed and Cris shook his head, exhausted. “I want to go for a ride—get two horses you and I and—”

            “You’re trying to kill me.” The ginger groaned. “It’s late and I’m spent.”

            “When the air’s on your face, you’ll find the strength.” Max rolled his eyes, trying to pry the elder’s hands from around him.

            “Why can’t we just stay like this?” Cris asked.

            “I have more energy still—” Max whined. Cris put a hand on his chin.

            “No, like this.” He stressed. “You never want to be still with me afterwards.”

            “Liar.” Max scoffed. “We always lay together, sleep together after—”

            “Not when you take.” Cris interrupted him. His words made Max’s face smooth over and become still. There was insecurity there, a shadow of fear in his confidence. Cris sensed it too and decided to not press, letting him free from his arms, rolling to lie back. “We can go riding if you want. I’m feeling more awake now.” He slapped Max’s arm affectionately, using it to pull himself to a sit and then using the bed to stand.

            _Maxwell and Cristofer would never share the answers to this wall that had been built within their relationship. Though times did arise when Max would come to lie in Cris’s arms after taking him within, they were far and they were few._

            _This night, as Max donned his riding gear and lent Cris some as well, the knock took them from any previous pursuit._

            The servant girl Tigris had eyes to the floor as she tattled on what she had seen, telling the tale of Dwight Lancel’s advances on mistress Grace’s honor. Maxwell’s eyes were shocked, more so to hear of Grace’s infatuation than Lancel’s. He knew she had eyes for the Templar but a feeling like this? One intense enough to allow his lips to touch her own?

            Him. Dwight. A man. And her, still a girl. One who’d graced the man’s cheek only to have the man steal a place on her near pure lips.

            The scummy, opportunistic predator.

            At least, that was how Max saw it.

            “Where is he?” Max’s voice was cold and hurtful on her ears. Tigris near flinched.

            “Last I saw, back in the library, Master.” She bowed. Max punched his wall and shouldered past the girl with Cris calling out a warning before cursing and having to follow.

            Dwight was unsuspecting as he sat in guest robe and nightshirt, unable to sleep for his thoughts of the lady-to-be. He did not anticipate Max Trevelyan’s appearance and certainly not his fist to collide with his face so solidly he had to blink away orbs of white. The punch was not singular. It came again and again and was allied with a grip on Dwight’s shirt that longed to choke him. Dwight maneuvered to his feet and threw Max off only to have the man launch at him again, hands going for his neck and trying to see him to the floor. Dwight was a Templar, a man well versed in the clashing of flesh and steel. He couldn’t help but fight back.

            When he managed three pounds to Max’s stomach and a swift punch to his jaw, the lord stumbled back, a bit dizzy. Dwight seemed to find himself then, with Max shaking his head clean and people surfacing in the library: the librarian (looking bewildered), Tigris, Cristofer, a barely dressed Truman, and Paven. Two knights appeared as well, clad in full armor, seemingly having been roused from their posts by the sounds of the struggle.

            Max rubbed his jaw then and grinned, blood on the fingers he lazily swabbed into his gums. He even laughed, gazing at Dwight’s quickly bruising face and bloody nose.

            “You’re good.” He admitted and then launched towards him again. The shouts of protest were immediate and Truman stalked towards his brother just as the two guards blocked his path.

            “What the fuck are you doing?” Truman hissed, grabbing him roughly by the arm. Max wrenched from his grip, fighting to get past the guards.

            “Get off me! Let me through!” His body was pure adrenaline then and he yearned to get his hands around the neck of the Templar who was barely staying composed, his desire for vengeance showing in his eyes.

            “I’ll restrain you if you can’t find some bloody composure!” Truman said as calmly as his annoyance would allow, wrapping arms around his raging, embarrassing siblings. Max gave a sound that was more a growl than a yell and kicked before he barked out a submission to his brother’s will. Truman released him and Max glared at Dwight.

            “You blighter.” He spat at the man. “Don’t think this will save you—” Truman reached with a rough hand on Max’s neck and yanked the man until his ear met Truman’s lips.

            “What was so blighted important that you rouse both Lisbeth—and me!?” He hissed, grip near painful around the darker man’s neck.

            _Truman himself had been enjoying the company of a lover, basking in the afterglow of love making with none other than Celia. She’d fallen asleep after they had finished and he almost found sleep himself when Paven came to him. Celia grabbed her slip and Truman heard the news: Lisbeth had been awakened by the sounds of people running down the hall and guards yelling outside her window. Paven wisely brought her to Truman, who left her in Celia’s care and went to stop this commotion before it grew even larger, lamenting this occurrence taking place when he was acting Lord of the house_.

            “This pervert is preying on our sister!” Max shouted at him, wrenching from his grasp. Truman’s face changed immediately and suddenly surprised eyes fell on Dwight who fumbled, stuttering his defense. Truman too knew of Grace’s interest but anything more…?

As the mam begged, Max scoffed. “Don’t even try—they saw you put your lips on her!” He continued to talk, to say that it was a misunderstanding, that it was a chaste kiss-no more-that Grace had given him one and he had not molested her in any way. Truman’s face was still all the while but then asked for silence. Even Dwight ceased.

            “Paven.” Truman said. “Get Brycen and bring him here.” The boy made to turn and do as commanded. Truman shifted his gaze to Max. “Bring Templar Lancel into the hall.”

            “Truman—!”

            “I said…bring him to the hall.” Truman said. Max ever defiant, glared his refusal, kicking at a bookshelf.

            The librarian flinched.

            “My lord—”

            “Don’t speak,” Truman said to Dwight. “You aren’t safe from judgment.” The man gaped. “What? You think you should be allowed to prey upon my sister’s youth?”

            “My lord, I meant no injury or offense—”

            “And yet both have happened.” Truman said. “You take more than was offered. She gives you a handkerchief, you take her smallclothes.”

            “My lord, I swear—”

            “You two.” Truman said to the guards. “Take him into the hall. Max, instead, get Chadwick and…Antonelli. Don’t wake Cain.”

            _Truman had not wished Cain awake, for the Commander held more voice than Truman did in this matter. And Antonelli, being the woman she was, would side for Grace’s honor. It was a clever, political move._

            He sat at the high table when Dwight was forced to kneel before the step, stripped naked and bound, as well as gagged so his cries would not carry. Maxwell had already done a number on him and Truman was smart enough not to damage the man any more. Instead, he had him shamed with nudity being spit upon by all in attendance, heckles and slander sent his way.

            _That is where Grace arrived, without her composure._

            _When that was gone, she turned as cold and merciless as her reputation spoke of._

            She came in and gasped with horror, calling out protests against Lancel’s treatment. Max seemed irritated and spoke when no one stopped her from running towards the man, standing beside him.

            “Get away from him!”

            “What have you done to him!?” She was pure fury, mirroring the brother who walked towards her now, coming to pry her away from the Templar.

            “What he deserves!” Max yelled back.

            “You’ve dishonored him!” She said, surprised by the tears that smarted within her eyes. “You’ve dishonored yourselves!”

            “Grace, get away from him,” Truman tried, resisting the urge to stand.

            “No!” She screamed, truly screamed at the hall. “You will not hurt him! No more!”

            “He seduced you!” Max yelled at her then, his face defiant and angry.

            “Max—” Truman’s warning went on deaf ears. The words were already out.

            “He caught you, you stupid girl! You shouldn’t be chasing older men in the first place!” The words cut through all else. Everyone heard as Max attacked Grace, not the man.

_Blood. Against blood._

            “Enough.” Truman’s voice was lordly then, his posture rigid as he seethed. But the damage was done. Grace’s eyes were wide with shock and humiliation was upon her. It was a beautifully awful sight. And it came right before retaliation took hold.

            “I’m not the one chasing older men…brother!” She shouted at him, her words like fire.

_Just as all the implications of that sentence were…spreading through all the witnesses._

            “Leave. My. Hall. Both of you.” Truman’s voice was not loud but it held compulsion that was enough to force the shocked Max to his feet and out through the side door. Grace tried to resist but the impact of her words—and Max’s—was hitting her now, composing her. Making her see the damage they may have just inflicted against each other…against themselves.

            Truman was livid. His anger radiated off of his stony form and no sound could be heard in the hall, now filled with Brycen, Paven, Cris, the librarian, Alice, Tigris, Antonelli, Chadwick, and four other knights. After an excruciating wait, Truman spoke slowly.

            “Her youth…makes her affectionate, even to the one that wants to dishonor her.” He said lazily but the words swayed the crowd, even may have swayed Dwight. He turned to Brycen. “Come brother. Fast now.” Brycen was uncertain as he walked beside Truman and stood as his brother sat. Truman’s hand was on his back warmly but his voice had no such heat. “See what’s happened to this…Templar…” he said the word as though he did not believe it, “and know what fate will befall any who want to harm you, or Grace, or Lisbeth—or Max. He wanted to use Grace. This is better than he deserves.”

            He meant every word, hating the man and at the same time wanting to spank his siblings for their spectacle, all but the younger two. Suddenly, he looked up to Paven. “Paven.” The boy almost jumped. “Get Lisbeth. Bring her.” Paven nodded and slunk out.

_Lisbeth could remember the night as well, even though most of it was confused. It was the night when she was to be taught one of her truths…about family._

            When Paven brought her ten year old self into the hall, all eyes turned on her. She was shy under the gazes, shaken by the sight of the man in the middle of the floor. She sought out shelter and found it in Truman’s outstretched arm. She ran to her brother’s side, jumping right into his lap. He kissed her forehead and she his neck.

            “Look at him, Lisbeth.” Truman said. Lisbeth did as he said, hating the sight of him: his mangled eye, puffed cheeks, bloody nose and mouth, naked body that had been spit on. “He is not a good person, my love.” She heard him and widened her eyes as she took the man in a second time, noticing his roguish eyes, and his defiant brow, even claws on his nails. “He wanted to hurt Grace, even though she does not realize it.” Lisbeth raised questioning eyes at Truman. “So we protected her from him. We punished him, just like we’ll punish all who want to hurt us.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “All who hurt you.”

_Lisbeth Trevelyan nodded against her brother’s forehead that night, the way Grace pressed her own to Alice’s, sobbing. Her sobs echoed through her brother Max as well who had only a bedpost to lean his head on._

_All the Trevelyans would suffer that night, even Lisbeth who slept wrapped in Truman’s embrace. And afterwards, Lancel was replaced as escort, Truman was scolded for negligence, and whispers would follow for nearly five years about Max and Grace. It was that rare case of Trevelyan blunder where they could not manipulate, fight, or torture their way out of some catastrophe. Max had to distance from Cris publicly, Brycen was scarred by what he’d seen, and Lisbeth would later have to unlearn violence as a form of justice._

_And Grace’s romantic life—which, before, had been above reproach—was the source of much gossiping. Her strength of will and superiority were undermined in all rumors, the talk now quick to put her male companions in the position of dominator and seducer, and she in the position of victim…of fool._

_Needless to say, Grace would never love quite the same after that._

* * *

 

**_6_ **

_While Grace and Max’s love lives were thrown into turmoil, Lisbeth and Truman had yet to have their turn. As did Brycen but his story is a complicated tale in itself that doesn’t even begin to manifest until he is much older._

_On her visit back home in 9:22, the same year that Lancel experienced the worst night of his life and Grace and Max publicly humiliated on another, Lisbeth met her own paramour—Nicolas Forensi. He was a noble boy, just her age, that had been visiting with his parents on business._

_Their connection was instantaneous._

            The boy had light brown hair and perfect blue eyes. His face was a bit long but his mouth made up for it. Nicolas and Lisbeth played and adventured and talked nearly the entire month or so she was home and afterward, the lad wrote her in the circle and she wrote back. Friends is how they began but with time, these friendships grow into more, blossoming into romance.

            Two years later, in 9:24, she had developed a crush on him and he on her. Lisbeth would invite him to the manor when she was visiting and join him in her and Paven’s games, which of course was to the elf’s discomfort. The eyes she turned on Nicolas were not the ones she turned on Paven and the way Nicolas made her want to lace their fingers left Paven’s hands cold.

            “One day I’ll be a knight.” Nicolas would say to her. “I’ll be the best there was. And you—” He would look at her with utter amazement. “You’ll be the greatest mage.”

            At twelve years old, Lisbeth had her first thoughts of marriage. And then she heard of its near impossibility in her lifetime. Her brother Brycen had broken the news when she said she could get married to a courageous knight and they would battle Nevarrans or even Qunari. This was a time when Neverra was seeking to expand, shoving south into Orlais. It was suspected they might shove east as well.

            “You can’t.” Brycen’s fourteen year old mouth retorted.

            “Yes I can.” Lisbeth was haughty.

            “You would have mage children.” He said as if that was plain knowledge. “You can’t marry and do that. The circle would not allow it.”

            He was wrong of course but what he said sent Lisbeth running from the room, storming all the way her brother Truman’s empty room. It was not uncommon to find the rooms of her siblings empty as she grew older. Maxwell was unable to come this year, Grace had officially joined the chantry as a cleric, and though Truman returned while she was home, matters befitting his 23 year old responsibilities for the house and knighthood made him more elusive.

            “Where’s Truman?” She asked her mother, the person she could find.

            “Possibly with Mum.” Dawn said absentmindedly, speaking to three different servants, asking for at least ten different transactions. She always held papers in hand.

            With mum he was not but Lisbeth did find him. She went to him in bright red dressing and with longer hair than in years previous, holding flowers in her head. He was speaking with Cain but Lisbeth did not let that stop her.

            “He said I can’t marry, Truman.” She told her brother. “Because I have magic.” Truman’s eyes flickered and it almost seemed as if, for the first time, he would ignore her. He was dressed in armor and Cain gave her a weary look. But Truman did stop and picked her up though she was much too big to be light at this age.

            But Truman was strong. And he held onto her without issue.

            “He said that I can’t have my knight because the children would be magic.” She continued, even as Truman walked with her and Cain continued their discussions of artillery and the call from Starkhaven about venatori.

            “Lithel one,” he spoke to her then. “You can marry and you can have whoever you want.”

            “But Brycen—”

            “But Brycen, nothing.” Truman said. “He doesn’t know what he thinks he does. The circle does not forbid you.”

            _He did not tell her that very few, if any, noble families would haggle with their lineage by marrying their son or daughter off to a mage._

            “But if we had magic children then—then they would—” She sighed trying to find the right words. But Truman kissed her head.

            “Anyone would want to marry you, beloved.” He promised. “You will get married and it will be to a gallant, noble, and honorable man who will treat you like a teyrn, a queen.”

            _How right his predictions would be many, many years later._

_While Lisbeth was being reassured by her brother, Truman was being discouraged by the events that followed only a week later. He’d known it was coming but still could not stomach it when it did._

            Lisbeth returned home in 9:24 in time for the announcement. Their cousin Celia Kolette was going to be married this time next year to a Garen Albernius.

            Lisbeth had her suspicions since the night Maxwell had assaulted Lancel. She’d been left with Celia, who was a woman in Truman’s bed—like how her mother and father slept.

            She had also spied smallclothes on the floor.

            But at dinner, when the announcement came, Truman had been still, and calm. Always so calm. But halfway through, before even desert, he’d gotten up and politely excused himself, a quiet shadow. Lisbeth’s eyes were trained on him as Celia’s had to stay trained on Garen.

            But she could not sit still. Lisbeth bit her fingers and then stood as well, begging for leave to her rooms from her mother. She’d gone down to the kitchens and found Paven helping.

            “Paven.” She said to him. “I need a horse.” Her keeper, Melina, was startled.

            “Mistress—”

            “Go back to the room.” She ordered the woman. “Or I’ll tell Max and Truman.” The threat was not empty. She’d seen Melina kissing both on two occasions and the woman was under the impression neither brother knew. Without another word, Lisbeth rounded on Paven who did as she said. In a gown too extravagant for even the streets of Ostwick, Lisbeth rode out of the gates. The guards eyed her and tried to stop her but she had Paven with her, and spoke an easy lie of meeting Truman—who had rode out ahead, with Paven to “protect” her. They offered their services and that of other guards but let her pass through.

            Out onto the quiet streets, she trotted, her cloak concealing her grossly wealthy dress but continually flapping open. It was a blue thing, deep blue. Her swirls of hair were decorated in jeweled netting. Her slippers she wore had silver trimming. She was sure that she stood out, she and Paven, as they made their way past workers who toiled on their lands and even further into the city. But no one sought to harm them. Some smiled, recognizing her; others just bowed with respect. Still others just peered quizzically.

            On and on she rode, not really knowing where to go or where to search. Finally, she stopped by the familiar face of a knight from her house.

            “Which way did my brother Truman go?” She asked him kindly. He answered her just the same—pointing the way the man had ridden just a few minutes prior—not even a half hour. It was towards the ports where Trevelyan battleships were parked alongside others of varying purposes, some more pretty or petite.

            She looked over the sails and masts, searching for a sign of the man she sought. But he found her first, calling to her horse, which answered. He stood behind her, his own horse at the posts. He smiled warmly at her as he walked astride her horse, arms raised to her. She saw his pain even in his smile and swung her legs to one side, placing hands on his shoulders as she slid down.

            “You should not have come out like so, lithel one.” He said once he’d put her horse by his own, Paven their shadow. “This close to the ports, thieves and cutpurses come out.”

            “I didn’t want to lose you.” She said softly, chest aching with something she couldn’t discern specifically. It felt like sorrow and weakness but also closeness.

            “You’ll never lose me, my lithel one.” He smiled but there it was again, that echo of pain in his mouth. Lisbeth hugged tight to his side. She wanted her hug to heal him, willed it to.

            “Are you going to sail away, Truman?” She asked, ignoring his assurances, not able to stop her voice from quivering. It took a moment for him to answer this time. And then he picked her up again, something she was-at this point-far too old for and barely light enough to cause him no strain. Still, the act made her feel safe and happy as it always had and she nuzzled her head into his neck as he walked her down a dock.

            “Not without you, my love.” He said and Lisbeth felt his brief unsteadiness as he stepped into a small boat that had been lowered from the ship to its left (no doubt Truman’s doing from a time before Lisbeth had arrived). She heard him call back, “Stay with the boat. We will be back,” to Paven and then she was sitting on smooth wood and her brother sat before her and began to row out from shore and into the deep of the coastal waters.

            It was a dark night, and a still one. Truman’s face no longer smiled as thoughts tossed around his mind, clouding his handsome face. He rowed steadily and Lisbeth held her hands in her lap, face cast downward but eyes cast upwards, looking at him through her lashes. Though only twelve, she could read his face and could see the ghosts of Grace in them, the spirits of Honey when she looked at Max. Well, when she used to look at Max.

            Further, they drifted and the lights of the city sparkled like the stars overhead. Lisbeth gazed up at them after a time, marveling.

            “They shine like you,” she said softly. Truman looked up at her, as if remembering she was there with him. He gave a halfhearted smile.

            “They shine on darkness.” He said, his face pained once more. Lisbeth hesitated.

            “You're my star…Truman.” She said softly. He looked at her then and now his smile was genuine, half amused, half a grimace with a shake of his head. But he appreciated it, he wanted to hear it—needed to. Lisbeth’s hands played over each other, her eyes on them. “You shine in me…and…in her.” She did not need to name the woman, and Truman’s hardened jaw told her he knew of whom she spoke, but he did not speak to protest. “N-…nothing is lost…you will be in us…you’ll—you’ll have her…no matter who else….” She looked back at the stars then, the way they gleamed down. “Her star…always there…burning and shining…love inside her heart.”

            She hadn’t realized she was crying, did not know what prompted it, but Truman reached out to her and wiped at her eyes. Lisbeth looked to him then and saw his own, filled to the brim but refusing to fall. He urged her to his arms and Lisbeth fell into them, burying her head into his coat, thankful as he wrapped her up in his strong arms, kissing her hair.

            “I’m sorry.” She managed, trying to be a lady, not a baby; trying to be strong for her strong brother; trying to heal his wounds with a different kind of magic.

            “No, no.” He whispered to her, voice thick. “Don’t be sorry, my love.”

            “I…don’t want to—to—” she fought her tears, “make you…cry.” The last word was strained and she whimpered from the effort to bite her tongue.

            He didn’t answer her then, just kissed her forehead hard and put a hand behind her head, pressing her into his chest as his tears finally fell. Lisbeth held him tight and shot her face up, lips pressing against Truman’s. He kissed her back, just as hard as he’d kissed her forehead, and they both cried and kissed and cried and kissed, there in that little boat just a few clicks from shore. The kisses were for both of them, trying to silence the other’s tears but only summoning more. They drowned in the pain and rose from the waters calmer, sailing back to shore when they had found this strength. Lisbeth sat in his lap, the oars almost brushing her as they sailed but neither wished to part. Not yet. They were not strong enough alone, separated.

_Their meeting on the lake marked the beginning of the end of their walls, secrets between them becoming scarcer and scarcer as time went by, even as they kept their share from all others. But not each other, not after that journey. It was such a simple thing, such a simple act, and time still moved: Celia was still married, Lisbeth returned to the circle, and Truman carried on as knight and heir. In a practical sense, nothing had been changed._

_Nothing but the two of them._

_For out on that river, Lisbeth had done more than come to her brother’s rescue, saving him from his heartbreak and feelings of utter helplessness, unable to stop one of the worst things that could happen from happening. And Truman had done more than thank her for her deeds, taking them to heart and listening to them. On that river, the siblings had realized their bond, took it from the imaginary and emotional and made it flesh and bone._

_On that river, Truman and Lisbeth Trevelyan discovered that they were stronger, calmer, smarter together…two bodies fitting snug between the rowing oars, sharing the pain of a loss, and shining for each other. Their starlight was streamed from their eyes and exhaled out of their lips, bringing them back to the dark shore._

_As bright as flames._


	3. 7-9

_Interlude_

_The Trevelyans have never been ones to shy away from problems. They face them head on, with action that would stir their fellow Marchers and Thedosians alike. The house motto was passed down and upheld through such actions. “Modest in temper, bold in deed.” The previous chapters will have shown you, reader, that not all Trevelyans lived up to this standard and yet all are still known for it. Maxwell is yet thought of without his temper, Brycen without his combative nature, and Lisbeth without her fondness of corporal punishments._

_As a family, the Trevelyans were colored by these words._

_And when I speak of the Trevelyan family itself, you must come to understand that it was not a physical, definitive entity so much as it was a concept, a code, an alliance applied to the everyday workings of those within its’ daily lives. It was more than just blood ties, marked by a covenant of pain and sacrifice in a birthing bed. It was something that stretched from the highest head of the manor to the lowliest servant. It stretched outward and upward through the streets, into the Chantry, out on the harbor, and across the seas, even reaching those who claimed to be linked to our Lady Inquisitor years later._

_Family was a bond made of blood, sweat, bread and—most importantly—secrets. Secrets and shadows and persons who existed beneath the House motto all while being tempered and governed by it all the same. These bonds were drawn across blood and race and ideal whereas distance could be drawn up within what we would think of as “the family” and even within the marital contracts._

_That does not somehow make family all-powerful or all-inclusive either. The hierarchy of Trevelyan family was complex, rife with irregularities, exceptions, and outliers. The Trevelyan children were granted power yet some were considered too dangerous to have around…to have informed. High born servants were treated well except for those only there because of tenuous alliances—dropped just as fast as their connections did, no matter how long they’d been serving. Elves like Paven and Tigris were given a special kind of immunity whereas elves like Honey were not. And even elves in Honey’s caliber were considered traitorous if they should be found acting outside of the way “family” should._

_To put it simply, family extended to all inhabitants of the house except for those it did not extend to. The chosen were the chosen and those not in grace…were simply not in it._

 

* * *

 

 

**_7_ **

_Dawn’s brother-in-law, Duncan Campo, never visited the Trevelyan manor more than a handful of times. He was a stingy man who owned holdings he did not ally with the Trevelyans’. His children were cared for by his sister Camille, a barren woman who shared the burden with her brother’s sister, Dawn. More specifically, with Dawn Trevelyan’s nurse Mum._

_As Camille was considered family, so too were her nieces and nephews._

_Until that month, those days in 9:25. When the Campos were no longer to be trusted. And Brycen Trevelyan was all but disowned._

            Brycen Trevelyan was fifteen years of age by then and an absolute thorn in the sides of his parents. His schooling would soon be behind him and still he had not chosen a path. But his options were limited, given his disposition and ambitions. He was one of the only children to receive a beating from their father, on account of publicly blaspheming the chantry, the Templars, the Free March teyrn, and the Trevelyan house itself.

            When he’d told his brother that Templars were lyrium-addicted slaves, Max had nearly broken his jaw. When he told his sister Grace that chant of light didn’t match other histories, and rejected her explanation that the other stories were just that—stories—they didn’t talk for near a month.

            The boy was a thinker but also a rebel and knew that he wanted to explore, outside of the heavy armor of knighthood and the corrupt garb of a Templar. He hadn’t the head for numbers nor the tongue for fruitful mercantile affairs.

            And then there was his lust.

            Brycen was by far the most deprived and most lustful of the siblings. Even as Truman de-pants and de-skirted many a woman, Brycen spent his teenage years ordering nearly as many to do the same for him, his count well above Max’s. He would spend his time imagining, and that imagining would lead to his need for sexual release. If not with a woman, he would do so alone, touching himself and fantasizing about what he would do to a woman he could come across—what he would do to the women he already knew.

            And yet he was still deprived. Brycen often lamented the fact that his siblings got away with more than he did. See, Brycen was watched more closely than all but possibly Lisbeth, and his defiant nature caused the gazes upon him to be of a sharper quality.

            He’d bedded nearly as many women as Truman—at a younger age too—and was caught, tattled on, and scolded for more than half of these encounters. Inadvertently, Brycen came to associate his appetites with shame, with hiding and sneaking and judgment for them.

            One such tattle teller had been his cousin Anne Campo. The fair skinned, blonde headed girl was a year younger than the lord and had caught him with an unnamed elven servant who’d been on her knees with a mouthful of his member.

            Anne had run from him, straight to his mother who had shipped the servant girl off to Kirkwall and let Mum take a switch to Brycen for his lecherous behavior. What boy of thirteen would dare do such things, he would be asked.

            Brycen had never forgiven Anne for that. Though friends at one point in time, he’d soon lost all caring for his cousin. She grew to remind him of everything bad about Lisbeth, everything mean about Truman, and everything hurtful about Grace. She didn’t seem to care for him much either, receiving joy only in causing him more discomfort, more embarrassment.

            _Anne would later reveal that she’d grown to hate her cousin for a number of things—his blasphemy and need to verbally attack people being two. The primary reason had been his forcing one of her elven servants to service him: a sweet girl of just ten and someone Anne cared for as a sister. Brycen had been thirteen. As Anne hated Brycen for his abuse of her friend, he hated her for her tattling._

            The year of 9:25 saw Brycen home with only Truman and Grace around, Maxwell and Lisbeth both gone. His parents were home as well, entertaining some guests in the solar. Brycen had been riding his personal steed, named only Blue for the eyes the horse possessed. Around and around the yard he would trot, unable to go outside the walls for some offense or another.

            Brycen was lost in thought as he galloped, looking into the clouds and guessing what the sky looked like on the other side of Thedas—how it looked into the Imperium. Never grounded was the youngest Trevelyan boy.

            Not until he was nearly pushed off his horse by a hand.

            “Why?” Brycen groaned at the noble boy—Oliver was his name. The dark haired youth just grinned wickedly and forced Brycen to reposition, slap his reigns, and move forward. “What was that for?”

            “You’re in the clouds.” The boy smiled. He was one of Brycen’s only friends in the manor and one of his only accomplices.

            “I’d rather be in town.” Brycen was moping.

            “You could try to sneak.” Oliver offered. Brycen snorted.

            “Make it past Chadwick?” he asked. Oliver shrugged. Brycen sighed. “No, I’ll just go to the edge and…then back.”

            But as he spoke, his friend was no longer looking at him but at the entrance to the garden where Anne was trotting from the path, laughing alongside her servant, whom he believed was named Milly. The elf was just as fare and blonde as her lady and the two laughed as they moved beneath the sun. Brycen felt a pang of anger at that and another at his companion’s sound.

            “Oh please.” He responded.

            “Fine girl, your cousin.” He said, his eyes on the two ladies due on course towards them.

            “Fine brat.” Brycen spat but he knew what Oliver meant. Anne campo was cute. She was a girl who would forever remain adorable as opposed to sexy, an innocent face instead of a femme fatale. As she rode in her sky blue gown that reached only her waist and tight, pink trousers—hair in two buns—she proved a tempting sight. For both boys, though Brycen would not admit it.

            They had not always hated each other. Once upon a time, Brycen and Anne had gone on adventures together: finding things in the garden, dodging chaperones at the local shops, kissing each other beneath blankets and laughing at how gross it was.

            _And how good it felt._

            But those days were behind them and now Brycen looked upon the woman with a mixture of anger and resentment. The girl mirrored him and her servant did as well, riding by with head just as high.

            “Let’s follow them.” Oliver said as the girls went towards the western part of the manor.

            “No.” Brycen said. “I don’t feel like going in circles anyway. Let’s just go.”

_He did go, with a reluctant Oliver in tow. But that was not the end of the matter, as he had hoped—for the less he dealt with his cousin, the better. No, that very same night, after a somewhat lonely dinner and two lectures, Brycen finally found time for himself on the rooftops of the manor. It was still as the sun went down—and beautiful besides._

_The stillness would not last._

            As Brycen reclined and tried to imagine far-away places for the hundredth time, hands grabbed him and gave a shove. It was none other than his cousin.

            “Careful!” He hissed at her, stepping away from the edge of the flat-topped roof. She was not listening.

            “How could you!?” She was angry. She was crying. She threw a fist at him. Brycen was utterly perplexed, angry at her attack.

            “I didn’t do anything!”

            “You told him to hurt her!” She accused. “You let him rape her!”

            The servant who sat by Anne—the girl Milly who walked with her head held high and sneered just as Anne had sneered, had been raped. By Oliver.

            “I didn’t tell him to do anything!” Brycen was more angry at her coming to him than he was about what’d happened to the elf. He’d never had the motto that his brother Truman had when it came to “ladies”—certainly not those of the lesser race.

            “You’re both sick! And I’m going to tell your mother and she’s going to get rid of Oliver!” Brycen’s eyes widened in shock before he regained his sense.

            “No he won’t!” He said. “What—he’ll be sent away all because of a touchy servant?” He scoffed at the thought. “I didn’t have anything to do with it and Oliver isn’t going to be sent away all because your servant let him inside her.”

            Anne’s face had gone red and she looked ready to hit him.

            “She didn’t let him!” Was the last she said before turning and walking back to the stone steps that led to the manor.

_Brycen had been right._

            When Anne learned that Milly was going to be sent to Lady Grace’s service when she went back to the chantry and that Oliver was yet in the manor, she was aghast. Brycen saw her come out of his parents’ study, with eyes dreadful and an arm around her friend whose face was utterly devoid of emotion. Brycen watched as they walked away, unsure of how to feel then. Part of him felt triumphant—proving his cousin wrong so thoroughly. And yet another felt sad. When asked, Oliver simply said that the elf came onto him and didn’t stop him.

Dissatisfied but tired, Brycen did not press. The matter would finally be settled.

_Until the end of the week—when Oliver was suddenly sent back home._

            Brycen heard the news upon returning home after a time out on the town. His bag had been full of parchments and new quills and inks. His escort let him even stop by the baker beforehand and he’d brought a bun back for his friend, and one for his sister.

            He’d sought the boy out first, asking around for him until finally Mum told him the boy was sent back home this morning.

            “What? Why!?” Brycen demanded.

            “Don’t take a tone.” Mum brandished a spoon.

            “Sorry Mum.” He muttered. Then louder spoke, “Did father send him? When?”

            “This morning. That troublesome thing.” Mum shook her head. “Injured a member of the family, he did.”

            _Anne was not expecting Brycen to sit by when he learned what she had done but she certainly did not expect him to burst into her room like he did. His expression was one that filled her nightmares for years to come, serving as the harbinger for the horror that was to come._

            He’d ordered her servants out, all but Milly, who sat on the bed while Anne stood, eyes slits, hands on her hips. Brycen’s heart was beating fast and he slammed the door behind him.

            “You lying bitch!” He threw at his cousin.

            “I’ll tell your mother you said that.” She shot back instantly.

            “He didn’t rape you.” Brycen hissed, fists balled.

            “Yes he did.” Anne said haughtily, but not without venom. “The moment he decided to rape Milly.” Her words were hard. “And now he’s paid for it.”

            Brycen hated her. He hated her then more than he’d hated almost anything since. And then, before she could open her mouth to rake him over the coals about her victory, he launched at her servant and began to choke her.

            When Brycen wrapped his hands around her throat, he felt the overwhelming desire take over him. The desire to get back at his cousin’s treachery, the desire to take from her as she’d taken from him, the desire for revenge against another of his enemies.

            _The lust for it._

            Anne hurled herself at him, trying to stop his shaking and squeezing of Milly’s neck, the woman in his grasp not able to scream, prying at his hands, scratching for a release.

Anne’s fists hurt him but they did not stop him from slamming Milly’s head against the headboard and letting her limp body sink to the floor at his feet.

_In hindsight, Anne knew that she should have run at that moment, right as she saw what her cousin had just done. She should have taken off and ran to Mum or Dawn or anyone who could help Milly and save her from the pain Brycen Trevelyan would inflict upon her._

_But hindsight was not with her then. And instead of running, Anne decided to yell._

“You’re crazy!” She remembered saying. “I’m telling!”

pShe made it to the door and turned the handle only to have Brycen slam it back shut and shove her back from it. She grabbed onto the desk to stop from falling, glaring at him as he kept advancing. She made to block as his hand came up but instead of a punch, he grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled.

_It hurt. It hurt very much._

“I’m telling, I’m telling,” he mocked her as he yanked her roots. “That’s all you do! You only tell things that aren’t your business!” He threw her away from him and Anne did slip this time, scrambling to her feet and making for her boudoir. Brycen moved after her and she swung the door closed behind her, catching his hand.

He howled in pain, trying to shove the door off as Anne pushed her weight on it, trying to crush his hand—crush him like a spider.

_It would be for naught. She was not raised for strength._

The door slowly opened despite her efforts and Anne suddenly let it go, Brycen tumbling with it. She dived past him and ran back into the room, back towards the door. But Anne Campo did not make it. She got as far as the desk and then Brycen was pulling her back, an arm thrown around her neck.

She lost her footing and was sent to the floor with a thud, the wind knocked out of her, leaving her choking and gasping, hand to her throat.

Brycen was in her vision then, rolling on top of her and punching her in the eye so hard that she had been sure he punched it out of her head. She tried to squirm, to escape, but it seemed all her reaches were yanked back, slapped down. All her movements were matched. And above her, she could hear his voice.

“Bitch,” he was saying, “liar.” “Hate you.” Even “whore.” Her cousin was hitting her, and pinning her and then he was pulling off her smallclothes bottoms.

_Ripping them off, against her weak kicks._

He was choking her, one hand clamped on her throat and her screams did not seem to travel very far. He was stronger than her arm which tried to push him back, and her legs which tried to close at the knees—tried to kick him away.

His cock, made sword, surged something hateful and proved stronger than her defenses.

It tore through her, forcing into her, sending pain incomprehensible through her back and her core.

_Her soul._

She remembered crying, though that too was dwarfed by his hand on her throat. She remembered as the tears spilled over her cheeks and the fight died from her limbs.

All the while, hearing as her cousin, Brycen Trevelyan, yelled over and over above her. “Bitch.” “Liar.” “Hate you.”

_Brycen was caught in the act. The servants he’d dismissed, fearing the worst, finally convinced Mum to go to the room. The sight she saw would ruin her relationship with Brycen Trevelyan forever. She broke the two of them, calling for guards._

_In a week, Brycen had an arranged education in Val Royeaux and Anne was sent to live with Lucille, not her parents. Milly, just concussed, was sent to an alienage, never to be heard from again._

Brycen Trevelyan felt abandoned by his family when he was sent away—all because of Anne. And Anne felt just as betrayed, not permitted to share the details of what had happened to her with her family until years later. She was kept from the Campos and Caspins for nearly half a year after her suffering. By the time her parents could learn the truth, Brycen was far away in Val Royeaux and untouchable from the justice that was wanted.

_And just as far from the manor. And his family._

 

* * *

 

**_8_ **

_After Brycen left, the house took some time to adjust. Brycen had been family—was still family—but had become a danger, a traitor in his own way. As had Anne, for her parents’ demands for vengeance and threats of exposure._

_Of course no one knew why he’d been sent away. No one but those involved. And later, Lisbeth. But before she found out, the Trevelyan siblings knew only that their brother had pulled another stunt and was now sent to the south. It was a punishment and an opportunity._

_Things seemed as though they would never be the same but eventually they became so. As the siblings aged and their duties increased, their attentions dampened and were divided between other distractions, some just as important and others less so._

            Lisbeth was thirteen and came to a home that was empty of Brycen, for the first time in all her life. It was quieter then, and more than a bit dull.

            “I miss him,” she would say.

            “I know.” Her companion would answer, sometimes Truman, sometimes Max, sometimes Grace, sometimes Nicolas. Whomever was around to witness her melancholy.

            “You told me our family was the most important thing to us,” she told Truman as they took their picnic basket out to the seafront. “You told me that.”

            “It’s true.” He replied but could not lie to the knowing in her frown.

            “I already see you all the least I can bear.” Lisbeth complained. “And now father’s sent Brycen away—mother sent our cousins.”

            “For their good.” Truman reminded her. The wagon in which they road rocked along the streets, gravel and dirt kicking up. “And their desire. Brycen wanted to go.”

            “Not to Val Royeaux.” Lisbeth was defiant. “Not yet. He was still deciding what he wanted to do.”

            “He has a talent.” Truman continued. “It has to be nurtured.”

            “He could have had a tutor.” Lisbeth pouted. That made Truman smile at her and Lisbeth cut her eyes at him, fighting a smile of her own. She leaned in to return his kiss and looked longingly out the window.

            “Anne does not write to me anymore.” She said and looked up at him through her lashes. “I know why, Truman.” Truman sighed.

            “I can ask mother to let her letters through for you.” He promised. The smile she gave him made him grab her and sweep her into his lap, laughing as he did so.

            The letter did come through. It had been read by Mum, Lisbeth was sure. But nothing had been scratched out and all it gave were warm greetings and half answers about why she had left and when she was to return.

            Lisbeth sulked about the manor, wishing for her brother and also wishing for her playmate. Paven tried his best to amuse her and take her mind off of her suspicions but neither he nor Nicolas could move her—who also came by and sought her affections and happiness. Finally, a plan was devised.

            “She isn’t telling me anything.” Lisbeth explained to Paven. “She’s hiding from me.”

            “Maybe her mother won’t let her write what she wants.” Paven said.

            “Obviously, Paven!” Lisbeth scoffed, angry at his comment on the obvious conditions she could infer her cousin was under.

            “Well have her send the note not to you then.” Paven offered. The idea made Lisbeth pause midstride. She stared at him.

            “To whom?” She asked.

            “To someone you know.” He said. “So that your mother and Mum won’t read it.”

            “But hers may still.”

            “Alright.” Paven agreed. “Have her brother send it—her sister.”

            “They won’t tell me more if she won’t.”

            “She can put their name on it.”

            Lisbeth was hard pressed to trust the idea but blown away by its simplicity. And viability.

            “She writes to me…under another’s name…but to whom?” Lisbeth sighed and then as soon as she said the statement, she knew. “Nicolas!”

            _Nicolas was eager to oblige and traded his services for a kiss. Lisbeth and her companion had not yet shared their first kisses but, upon him pressing his deal, they did._

_It was a moment Lisbeth would ponder for the next ten years and would come to shape as well as diminish her relationship with Nicolas. But that came to a head, quite painfully, later._

            For that day, Lisbeth traded a chaste kiss for Nicolas’s postal services and the two of them devised their plan, which left her many days waiting, with increasing paranoia, afraid that her family would find out. She felt their gazes more than in times past, aware of her breathings, comings, goings. For near a month, she felt almost a stranger in her home, the place where she’d only days before felt so herself. All because of Brycen and Anne.

            “I have it.” Nicolas told her one day. He’d traveled to the manor with a letter in his bag. It was the second of its kind, the first a preliminary try to which Anne replied with her own name and gave elusory answers once more.

            Now, the news was different.

            Now, the letter came from Antony Campo.

            “Oh thank you!” Lisbeth cried when she was sure it was Anne’s handwriting within. She made to race off with her contraband when Nicolas put a hand on hers, blue eyes shining.

            “Can I see it?” He asked.

            “She wouldn’t wish for anyone else to see this.” Lisbeth refused, looking at his hand. Nicolas pouted but released her only to grab her once more. Lisbeth’s eyes narrowed, true surprise decorating her face.

            “When are you coming back?” He asked.

            “When I’ve decided what to do—and read this.” Lisbeth said, becoming impatient. Nicolas sighed and nodded glumly. Paven watched this all the while, his eyes lingering on the hold that Nicolas had on Lisbeth’s wrist. His eyes were dark, pulse betraying his calm face.

            “Kiss me goodbye?” Nicolas asked. He’d received—or stolen, if you asked Paven—two other from Lisbeth this way. And even she seemed incensed by it for she was. Annoyance bordering anger filled her too quickly for her to understand why and she wanted to strike Nicolas suddenly, and get away from him—from the hand around her wrist.

            “No.” She spat in disgust. “And let me go!” He tightened his fingers but released them after. “I don’t have time for your stupidness, Nicolas.” She turned on her heel at that and made off to her room, stopping only to look at her elf and summon him with, “Come along, Paven.”

            Paven followed her happily, glancing back at Nicolas and seeing the disappointment there—disappointment that Paven could not understand and rejected.

_Paven had done much for Lisbeth with no reward besides her friendship and could not even fathom Nicolas demanding of her something in return—especially if he professed to love her._

            Paven was with Lisbeth when she opened the letter and began to read it, reclined on her bed where Paven sat at the foot. Her right hand kept stroking the wrist of the left, where her beau had grabbed her, in a way that was forceful if not painful. He could see her discomfort as she nursed the ghost away and was angry himself at what had been done.

But as her reading continued, her eyes went from hungry to wide and in a moment she was frowning and her beautiful curiosity became heartbreak, both hands on the paper.

            “What happened?” Paven asked. Lisbeth shook her head. Her eyes raked over the page again and her mind worked at the riddles that count be found there.

            Riddles she quickly unraveled.

            She stood and Paven stood with her. Her eyes were glossy but not teary. Paven did not ask again and she was grateful for his silence.

            For nearly a week, Lisbeth kept to her room, rifling through her bags from the circle and shooing away all chamberlains and servants. Even Paven was dismissed. Finally, she’d worried Truman enough to come to her.

            “Lithel one?” He asked as he entered her room. Papers and notes were everywhere, as were books she had borrowed. She sat in a short dress and long pants, all soft silk, writing on a paper and peering over runes and symbols. When her brother entered, she set the paper down and looked up to him shyly. Truman narrowed his eyes, glancing to the paper at her thigh. “Are you alright? You’re worrying mum.”

            “I’m alright.” She said with a nod. But Truman kept walking in, closing her door. He was tall in his white shirt and bright blue over-shirt. His face was worried.

            “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me?” He asked her, taking a seat beside her at the desk and lazily moving a scrap of parchment. “I can probably help you. Whatever you’re going through, I can try.”

            His tenderness made Lisbeth sad and she told him as much of the truth as she could.

            “I can’t tell you.” She revealed. “I need to find something but I can’t tell you what or for who. She would not like for me to tell you. But…” she thought hard and touched a hand to her left wrist absent-mindedly. “Would you….”

            “Would I?” He urged her, moving a long strand of hair from his sister’s face. She did not speak suddenly, much to Truman’s maddening displeasure, but her eyes seemed to be farther off then, outside of the room and the letter she tucked beneath her thigh. Her hands turned over each other.

            “Brycen is ungallant.” She stated this. It was not a question. Truman did not reply fast.

            “He is not one to follow conventions.” Truman said. “Gallantry being one of them.”

            “I hate him.” Lisbeth said plainly. Truman, for the first time, was shocked by her.

            “Lisbeth, what are you saying?” He was stern. “He is your brother—”

            “He is ungallant.” She replied.

            “Ungallant or not, he is our brother.” Truman said. “You cannot discard family for their shortcomings. Remember what you asked me?” Lisbeth ignored his question.

            “Nicolas kissed me.” She said to her desk. “And I…I think he is ungallant too.”

_Truman did not prepare himself for all that his sister was disclosing to him and can remember wishing that he’d brought his wits and cooled his head beforehand. At the news, he heckles were raised, like a dog catching the scent of blood._

            “Lisbeth…why didn’t you tell me?” He sounded disgruntled.

            “It’s…only just happened this time back.” She said glumly. Her brown eyes turned up to his and she blinked away her anger as best as she could. “I don’t like how we’ve kissed.”

            “How did you?” Truman kept his voice steady, eyes never leaving his sister.

            “He is helping me.” She said. “With what I can’t tell you about.” Truman frowned. “And I kissed him for his help. I did it because he asked but…I didn’t think it would feel like nothing.” She inhaled huffily. “He made me mad when he grabbed my wrist too.”

            “When did he grab your wrist?”

            “This week.” She looked sad. “I…wanted to hit him.” She was defensive. “But he shouldn’t touch me if I do not say so! If I don’t allow it, he should have his hand burned.”

            “Lucky it isn’t removed.” Truman said darkly, eyes now in the space before them. Lisbeth’s eyes widened at his words and she felt a smile forming on her face and wormed her way into her brother’s arms, resting a head on his shoulder.

            “Would you take his hand, Truman? If he did it again? Not this time—he didn’t know this time.” She was excited. She looked up at him with eyes gleaming. He smirked down at her.

            “I’d take it off now if I could get away with it.” He said. Lisbeth’s laughter was sweet and crisp and she hugged him tighter, littering pecks all over his mouth.

            “Why can’t he be like you, Truman?” She asked her brother. “You’re gallant and knightly.” She heaved a huge sigh.

            “He’s just a boy.” Truman said simply, kissing her lips one more time. “So he will not be truly gallant, not truly chivalric until he grows older.” He smiled small. “Remember, you deserve chivalry, lithel one. You deserve respect and caring and tenderness and for a man to always seek your fulfillment first. Never choose he who is not chivalric, you understand? You are a teyrna. You deserve a teyrn.” Lisbeth smiled serenely up at him, nodding along to his lessons. “Now,” he moved her into his lap, “what is it you’re asking of him?” Her face became aware again and troubled.

            “Truman, I can’t—”

            “What services?” Truman interrupted. “You needn’t tell me what exactly…if you truly can’t trust me to know.”

            “It’s not me!” Lisbeth stressed. “It is her! She does not want anyone else to know. I’ve told you all I can—”

            “Okay, okay.” He shushed her increasing volume. “I know you’ve tried…and I can maybe do this favor for you so you don’t have to ask Nicolas to do it anymore.”

            Lisbeth had not even considered her brother and did not think she could use him without exposing the secrets that Anne had shared with her, and worse—exposing the ingredients, and the rituals that Anne was asking for.

            But now her brother had come to her rescue and volunteered to be her contact with the Campos. She finished her letter and slipped in scribbled instructions she found from the junior enchanters at the circle, and sealed the death potion and her well wishes and condolences all in one.

            “You promise you won’t read it.” She asked her brother as he put his name on it. “It’s not for me, Truman. It isn’t my secret to share. If it was, I—”

            “I won’t read it.” He said. “I trust you.”

            “I trust you too.”

_Truman was only half-lying when he gave his vow. He did not read her letter before he resealed it and knew it was being sent only to someone in the Campo house. However, he did read the ingredients list and instructions she supplied. He saw the mixtures that his sweet sister somehow knew, had researched off of those papers she had in her room._

_It had been an ill-kept secret of the circles; used on the mages there to stop magical bloodlines from being reproduced._

_Truman still sent the letter off, with the instructions, and when he joined his sisters the night before Lisbeth was to leave, he understood what Brycen had done well enough. To this day, the two have a kind but strained relationship. From the moment Truman discovered what had transpired, he’d considered Brycen’s mistake to be a failure of his own. He hadn’t been the best role model, the right role model. And the rape of Anne was the result._

_Brycen would never learn why his older brother became so protective after he left for Val Royeaux, or why he seemed to take more interest than ever before in his personal life. It made him uncomfortable to be sure. But it also made him feel as though he hadn’t completely lost his family, and at least one life line cared enough to choose him._

 

* * *

 

**_9_ **

_Though her brother Truman was the one to teach her of chivalry and manhood, it was Paven who taught Lisbeth about intimacy. Two years had Brycen been in Val Royeaux, Truman attending to matters as far as Antiva, and Maxwell unknowingly about to face the greatest heartbreak of his life._

 It was early in 9:27 and Lisbeth returned to the circle after a quick outing where all the mages participated in helping create ornamentation for the grand tourney, due to happen the following year. Not for the first time, Nicolas and she rendezvoused. She’d been able to slip away for just enough time to share in his embrace and grant him a kiss.

Lisbeth had lost track of how many they had done this, since their first kiss together. After she and Nicolas had ceased fighting, their love life had resumed with hand holding turning into finger lacing and lips pressing heavier and holding there. Last year, nips had been introduced.

This was at Nicolas’s urging. Though Lisbeth had lost track of how many kisses the two shared, she could count on both hands how many she enjoyed enough to remember. Her time spent with Nicolas pressing his mouth to hers was troubling. After the interlocking became solid and lingering, she found herself waiting for…that which she couldn’t quite discern. A spark—like in the tales she read? A warmness like she felt in the arms of her sister and brothers?

_Pleasure is what she was searching for, she later knew. Not simply fascination and importance of having done the act but pleasure derived from its happening._

So she returned to the circle with her heart full of discomfort and her mind full of implications she did not want to consider. A mere 15 years of age and Lisbeth was longing for love and trying to understand why it did not feel like love between Nicolas and her—why she did not crave his kisses or rejoice in their publicity or feel like his partner.

Lisbeth felt like his friend…and at times, his better.

And his hand on her wrist left a mark on her muscle. She thought of it when she thought of him now. She thought of his gorgeous eyes and kind words and his hand and how it found its way to her wrist.

_She thought of his sweet mouth on hers that first time, first three times, trading her kiss—their first kiss—for a poison letter, bartering and monetizing and—why-oh- why had he done such a thing?_

            The night that she returned from this outing, Lisbeth found herself in the stacks of the library in the circle, book in hand. She was engrossed in it, not so much for the tale—though that was gripping—but for the man, the knight in it and his lady.

            Paven came to her and she blushed at first, having been caught with the romance on her person. When Paven merely laughed at her. She was mock scolding.

            “You still escape to the fantasy?” Paven was older than her but was not intimidating like other boys. He was like her family, after all.

            “I wasn’t reading it, actually.” Lisbeth corrected. Paven just gave her that appreciative smile and crossed his arms as she put the book on the shelf.

            “You can still read them.” He said understandingly.

            “But I wasn’t.” Lisbeth insisted, no compromise in her voice.

            “What would you need to find in the book?” Paven was skeptical. “A spell?”

            “No.” Lisbeth rolled her eyes and sighed. “I just….” She thougth for a time and then posed the question to Paven that she was posing to herself far too often. “What do you think of Nicolas, Pav?”

_The question took Paven aback. Not that she had asked him about the boy—she’d done that before—but because of the thoughtful frown she had when she asked it. She was asking him not what he thought but why Nicolas was not enough. And Paven understood that in seconds._

            “I don’t think much anything about him, m’lady.” Paven told her, looking away.

            “Do not lie to me.” She told him, raising a palm and holding it before her. “You have never been very warm to him but you’ve been around him as much as I have—nearly.”

            Her words were making him sweat with both shyness and anger. No, he was not warm towards Nicolas and that was because Nicolas was an oblivious, overconfident, criminally lucky opportunist who felt entitled to Lisbeth while really deserving someone far more mundane.

            At least, that’s how Paven saw him.

            Paven did not know how to answer her question, especially not with the heat in his long ears and the jealousy like worms in his stomach. Her eyes lowered and turned back in the book she had not truly pushed in.

            “You don’t think him chivalric like Ser Louis?” She insisted. Paven, who knew the books she read because he’d been commanded to read them as well, was incredulous. “Well, he has the birth and the strength. He will no doubt become a knight too and he is respectful to me.”

            Paven knew as she spoke that she was goading him into answering (so that she would not bear the guilt of ill-will towards Nicolas alone) and did so anyway.

            “Respect?” Paven shook his head. “I don’t know all that goes with chivalry, to be true to you. But I know respect in…all areas of men and women….” He paused. “He is not strong in all of them.” It made him feel good to say it and see her nod. He liked her to nod against the man who believed he held her heart.

            “There is so much to it.” She said quietly, her eyes on the book. “Like steadiness…. Something Nicolas lacks. He is too brash or otherwise too unknowing….”

            Lisbeth was sad as she made the admission, arms wrapped around herself. Paven watched as she did so, the jealousy gone and elation in its place. Elation and a heat further south.

            “Not safe enough.” Paven finished for her and nearly flinched at her gasp. Lisbeth was so aghast, her warm body turned momentarily cold before she became defensive.

            “Why would you say something like that?” She demanded, hand going to her wrist before she could stop it. Paven bowed his head, cheeks flushing.

            “I meant no offense.” He looked away and Lisbeth was instantly sorry. She swallowed nothing, willing herself to be calm and shook her head.

            “I’m not angry with you.” She assured him. “I…don’t care for those words you are using, though.” Paven nodded obediently but his eyes looked at her hand still trailing fingers about her wrist and she separated her hands, looking away. “Serah Louis…he’s chivalric. So is my brother Truman.” She fingered the spine of the book. “They are because they became men. Truman said so. Adults learn chivalry but…Nicolas is not. That is why he is not like them, why he does not have all the graces Truman spoke of when I was last home.”

            Her words made Paven bite his tongue, the snakes back once more, slithering around inside his stomach. He hated her explanation enough to speak, enough to contradict her.

            “If I may, m’lady,” Paven said lowly, voice just barely shaking with his passion. “I don’t think chivalry is only attained with manhood—”

            “It is. Truman told me—”

            “And if it is,” Paven pressed past her, surprising the both of them with his boldness. “Then I don’t think you’re seeing chivalry when you read Ser Louis and talk about Lord Truman’s behavior.”

            There was a brief pause and Paven saw as Lisbeth nearly betrayed her instant thought. She managed to shake her head at her stubborn friend.

            “A husband is a man,” Lisbeth said decidedly. “And a good husband is chivalric.”

            “Lisbeth,” Paven forced himself to keep looking at her as he spoke, his desire for her and desire to prove himself unable to leave his throat to make room for unencumbered sound. “What area do you wish Nicolas was good in…but he isn’t good in? Not for you.”

            There was something in his voice, the way he near whispered the words, that made Lisbeth want to run away and stay all at once. It wasn’t fear but…. Goosebumps rose on her skin. Images of Louis and his lady love flashed in her mind.

            “Well, romance.” She said stiffly then hurried with, “Among other things.” Paven was looking at her hardly, green eyes deep and glistening from the candlelight overhead that continued to dim as they reached curfew. This look now was not wistful longing and tenderness for her but…some type of hunger, some defiance and….

            “You don’t have to be a full-grown man to be good at romance.” Paven said. He blinked as if in slow motion and Lisbeth thought he was closer to her now than he had been before. She inhaled as he smiled and reached up to take the book from its perch. He brought it between them, staring at the cover of Louis and his red haired maiden, him offering her a rose and she offering him an extended hand, the other pressed to her lips, ready to blow him a kiss. Paven looked at her. “You like him because he brings her flowers?”

            Lisbeth was sure he was closer now, his face lean and elfy but eyes like green fire and hair like a hearth one. She could not help but remember just then the flowers he’d given to her, as bracelets and tiaras.

            “Yes.” She said the word nearly under her breath. Paven stepped closer to her, feet touching her own.

            “You like that…Truman is there to help when his lady asks it of him?” The question made her think of Paven again, as her servant, ever faithful.

            “Yes.” He was too close now, looming over her though they reached near the same height. His nose was inches away from her own, she could feel his words, smell his scent that reminded her of a part of her home.

            “And that both can kiss their ladies the right way.” He spoke. His nose was at hers and Lisbeth was confused to find her heart pumping.

            He wrapped one hand around her shoulder and the other, holding the book, was at her waist. He looked at her with a smoldering gaze, fear only just there. “If you permit me.” He whispered. Lisbeth gave no response but did not deny his lips.

            Thin but puckering nicely, they felt warm on hers and sent a rush into her mind that made her kiss him back and curl her fingers into the front of his shirt. He pulled her frame closer to his own. Somehow, his arms felt obliged to her…and safe.

            But then he did the unthinkable and opened her mouth with his own; and slipped in his tongue.

            Another first for her. But this time, Lisbeth felt a warmness and heard herself make a good sound. The pounding in her heart began to echo between her legs.

            Pulling back to stare into her eyes and show her his breathless amazement, Paven sat and brought her into his lap. Lisbeth lowered and was surprised to find that her hands shook.

            Paven took them in his fair ones and pressed his lips of magic to them both, the way that Truman might, paying attention to her left wrist, curling lips and palm about it and breathing his love into it.

            _It was this gesture that made Lisbeth feel the need to kiss him again. Kiss him how he’d done her, with mouth open, sucking more of his love into her and giving him her tongue in return._

            When he broke such a kiss to worship her neck, Lisbeth was again surprised at it. It was not the way Nicolas had done—with his hurtful pecks or nips. Paven’s kisses were wet and tender and…. And suddenly, her robe was too high and too hot and she wanted to reach for the buttons and let Paven have more of her. Heal more of her. Paven caught her hands and stopped her.

            “You can’t be caught underdressed mistress.” He told her.

_In truth, with the makings of mage robes, Lisbeth could only have bared her collar to him without removing the garment in full._

            Still, understanding what she wished, Paven ran hands over her covered breasts. He lifted the bottom of her robe to her thighs, removing her leather apron, and felt them. To Lisbeth, his hands were very warm and so familiar and nice that she found herself putting both hands on his head, caressing his hair as she would do a baby’s.

            “Like a gallant knight.” She said more to herself. “But you aren’t even a knight.”

             “I can give you romance.” He whispered back.

_After the words were in the air, Paven proceeded to teach her a bit more about what he could do for her but Nicolas couldn’t. His triumph at having pleased her that far urged him on, made him desperate to give her at least a bit more—as much as he dared. She was two years his junior after all. And her big brown eyes were wider and wider each second, unlearned and just as unsure as they were longing. He knew things must be paced and dreaded the thought of scarring any part of her, even if it only be a wrist._

            So following the words, Paven undid his belt so his hardness pushed upward an slid her pelvis across his lap, guiding her hips. He fought an insecure smile when she gasped at the hardness that awaited her and moved with him.

            “Paven.”

            He reached a hand into her smallclothes then, rolling two fingers around her wet pleasure spot that sat at the top.

_The look on Lisbeth’s face was one he would never forget and, later, frequently think of when he was pleasuring himself. It was one of lust to be sure but more than that. It was almost a smile, with eyes looking to him in a way that could be compared to how she looked at Truman._

            He rubbed her spot and she thrusted of her own volition, breathing becoming more and more frenzied before she was seizing, wetter on his hand and voice pitched high and loud with a moan he caught with his lips as he kissed her hard.

            Lisbeth remembered how she’d dressed afterward. She realized the smell of her smallclothes were like the smell behind the divider in the solar so long ago. She was numb as they walked, a bit dizzy. Paven had helped her to her feet and moved her to the restroom then to wipe between her legs. On her neck, she saw the mark he’d left with one of his kisses. It was like the mark Nicolas gave her once but did not come with pain—not any she could remember. She went to bed that night alone, as he had to sleep with the servants.

            “I wish I could have you in my bed.” She said truthfully to him, not looking at him. Paven understood she meant at the end of her bed, as he’ slept before, but was moved even though. He nodded, gave her a hug, and left her.

            His parting had been withdrawn and Lisbeth knew why. It wasn’t right for him to do what he did. He was a servant in their home, a guest—an underling—who’d just kissed and marked one of the children. He was not worthy, he was an elf, and what’s more, he’d kissed her first and acted upon her, not waiting for use but initiating it.

_Lisbeth and Paven were cooler to each other for near a month after the incident. Not from embarrassment precisely but from the knowledge that it was not quite right for them to have these kinds of desires, not right for Paven to act so rudely._

_Eventually, the spell passed and Paven returned to her side, the two were once again close, and the gifts of flower crowns arose, with her discretely getting him clothes and small knick-knacks where before she did no such things. Their intimacy was not heavy and erotic but now she would kiss his cheek, or touch his hand for no reason, or even allow the same from him, without her prior initiation._

_She would never think of Paven just as her servant after that but neither did she look at him as a true suitor. Paven knew both of these things._

_But he couldn’t help but smile, for Lisbeth at least thought of him more highly than she did Nicolas—and made it known. Paven at least got to witness as she would tell Nicolas off, comparing him to Paven, turn him down for Paven, and allowed Paven to step between them if she felt upset or uncomfortable with the noble boy._

_She was not his, and could not look at him exactly as he wanted, but their relationship had changed. She said it herself: Paven was her gallant knight._


End file.
